


Malencontreux

by chemicataclysm (toxictrubblez)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Abuse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Kita Shinsuke, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Child Neglect, Cooking Lessons, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Festivals, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Pining, Poetry, Slow Burn, Suna Rintarou-centric, Unrequited Love, mlm author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 52,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26170417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toxictrubblez/pseuds/chemicataclysm
Summary: Malencontreux, an adjective meaning “ill-timed”, “untimely”, “inopportune”, and “unfortunate” all at once.“I don’t hate you,” Suna said slowly, carefully.Osamu scoffed. “It sure feels like it.”“I like spending time with you,” Suna tried to assure.“Then why did ya stop?”Because I like you,Suna wanted to say.A tragedy in three acts; a love story in four.
Relationships: (on the side as a treat), Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 128
Kudos: 292





	1. (Enter Osamu)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fic is my baby, it's 59 pages of me losing my goddamn mind LMAO i wasn't going to post anything until I had all four acts done, but then act 1 ended up being over 25k words and im a simple man, i crave validation, i need approval or i die. Sorry for any mistakes, i tried to proofread but theres SO much
> 
> So, here we are, hope you like it. Sorry if the pacing is off, im bad at that
> 
> Fair warning: There are very indepth descriptions of depression, anxiety, mental illness, and unhealthy eating habits. No self harm/suicide, but the depictions of mental illness could be triggering. Also, there's copious references to literature and poetry, and minor amounts of French. You don't need to be a russian lit nerd to enjoy the fic (i think, thats what people told me, but im a russian lit nerd so idk) and [here's a pastebin for the French.](https://pastebin.com/3MD3S910)

“Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved!  
That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly.  
It is the one thing we are interested in here.”  
_\- Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1869_

***

Enter Suna, stage right, sprawled out in the backseat of his mom’s car, fast asleep and snoring softly, face crushed against the window. His hair was sticking out in every direction. The book he’d been reading was discarded on the floor. If he were awake, he’d muse about how similar this scene was to another from a movie he used to watch, with the way the car rumbled along the gravel and the way he sat partially upright but mostly laying down as the countryside passed in a blur outside the window. All he needed for a perfect recreation was a bouquet and a life-changing trip through some sort of spirit world.

He wasn’t awake, though, so he didn’t make the connection.

“Rintarou, we’re here,” His mom said. The car came to a sudden stop at the end of a driveway, and she turned to look at him as she spoke, sighing when he didn’t respond. She reached her arm out and gave him a light shove.

He shifted slightly but didn’t react outside of that.

“Rintarou,” She said again, firmly this time, voice raised. “Wake up. You have to help with the boxes.”

Suna’s eyes blinked open, bleary and unfocused. He looked around the car then gave a small nod, wiping at his eyes. He yawned. “Right,” He muttered, reaching down to pull on his sneakers, voice groggy. “How long was I asleep?”

“Not too long,” She said as she pulled the keys from the ignition. “Only an hour or two.” She stepped out of the car and shut the door with her hip. Suna followed suit, closing his own door with a bit too much force and running a hand through his hair in a fruitless attempt to fix it.

He hadn’t gotten a good look at their new house until now, having only seen it in low-quality photos on a too bright phone screen, but now that he was actually standing in front of the place, face to face with it, he couldn’t stop himself from grimacing. He was disappointed. Immensely disappointed.

It wasn’t horrible, not by any means, but it was nothing like their old apartment either. It was small with stained, white siding and weather-worn, wooden trim, vines creeping up on all sides, and a bird’s nest on the roof. The paint was chipped and sun-faded, the mailbox was crooked and dented, and the grass was patchy and yellow. The door looked like it was about to fall off the hinges.

A more optimistic person might’ve called it a cozy fixer-upper, but Suna didn’t have it in him to be so cheery; he was disgusted. The house looked livable at the very least, but it didn’t meet his standards. He wanted clean and polished, multiple floors in the middle of a crowded neighborhood, subway stations a short walk away, shops surrounding them, multiple residents, bright lights from every angle, and all kinds of busy bustle with paved, concrete roads and traffic at every hour.

Instead, he got quaint, dingy, one story, and tiny with a gravel driveway and nothing to do for miles.

For a brief moment, he wished he’d opted to stay with his dad during the divorce. Maybe then he’d still be in Tokyo and not some backwater town in the middle of Hyogo.

His mom noticed his grossed out expression and rolled her eyes. “don't be dramatic, it’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” She assured as she opened the trunk, beckoning Suna over. “You’ll get used to it, and it’ll be a good change of pace! You’ve needed a new environment for a while now.”

“It’s definitely as bad as I’m thinking,” He argued, shoulders slumped and cheeks puffed out. “I didn’t need a change of pace or a new environment. Why did we move here again? Couldn’t we have stayed in Tokyo? Gotten a smaller apartment?”

“I got a job offer in Kobe,” His mom said simply, like it explained anything.

It didn’t, in Suna’s humble opinion.

He felt like screaming but only drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, impassive save for the quirk in his brow. “Then _why_ didn’t we move to Kobe?” He asked through gritted teeth.

She laughed and handed him a small box. “Kobe’s too big! I wanted to live somewhere smaller,” She answered with a hum, grinning. “Small towns are nice, aren’t they? They’re full of friendly faces! Everyone knows everyone! Doesn’t that sound great?” Suna thought she was romanticizing things too much. “Besides, it’s only a half-hour train ride to Kobe. You can just buy a ticket if you wanna see a city so bad.”

Suna bit back a scowl. “But Tokyo wasn’t too big!” He practically whined, almost dropping the box when he took it from his mom. It was small, sure, but deceptively heavy too. He tightened his grip. “What’s in this? It weighs a ton.”

“Books,” His mom said, “ _Your_ books.” She clarified as she fished a pair of keys from her pocket and led Suna up to the front door, unlocking it and propping it open. “And Tokyo was too big, by the way.”

“No it wasn’t-”

“Rintarou.”

She gave him a pointed look signaling the end of the conversation, and he groaned, walking into the house. He didn’t want to argue. They argued too much. This was a chance to move past that and, as much as he didn’t want to be here, he knew to at least take it in stride and shut up when necessary.

His mom went back to the trunk, picked up a box of her own, and followed behind him.

  
  


It took them three days to fully unpack, with assembling furniture taking up the bulk of their time, but it took Suna longer to find anything even remotely resembling a routine. He spent most of the day moping around or locked in his room, stewing away in the humid, summer heat. He wasn’t comfortable with the change in environment at all. He thought their new house sucked. The air conditioner didn’t work half of the time, the doorbell was broken, the windows leaked when it rained and there was nothing— literally _nothing_ — to do but read the same few books over and over again to kill time.

  
  


He trudged into the kitchen one morning, three weeks to the date since they’d moved to Hyogo, dressed in his pajamas and half asleep, sweat dripping down his back despite just waking up. It was hot, impossibly so, and it was humid too; the air felt heavy and seemed to stick to his skin, physically dragging him down and holding him back. It felt like walking through maple syrup. He couldn’t wait for Summer to be over.

Yawning, he opened a cabinet and pulled out a container of instant coffee, dumping a spoonful into an old mug. He frowned when he realized he’d used the last of it.

“Mom!” He yelled, knowing she was awake and knowing she’d hear him. “We’re out of coffee!”

The reply came a few seconds later when the door to her room swung open and she stepped into the hall, hair half done and shirt half-tucked. “Go get more then,” She said, one hand on her hip.

Suna’s lips pursed. His brows knitted together. “I don't have any cash,” He murmured, making excuses. “Plus, I don't know where the store is.” He paused to fill the kettle and flip it on, glancing at his mom. “You go.”

“Look it up on Google Maps. You still have service, you know, it’s not like your phone stopped working,” She pointed out. She went over to the counter and picked up her wallet, taking out a thousand yen note. “Here,” She said as she handed it to Suna. “Go buy coffee and get yourself a snack too.”

He frowned, chewing on his lower lip. “But-”

“But nothing,” His mom cut him off. “I have to leave in ten minutes. I don't have time to run by the store.”

“What about after work?” He tried.

She crossed her arms. “Rintarou, you need to get out of the house. Staying cooped up in here is gonna make you go crazy,” She said. “Besides, you haven’t seen the town yet! It's cute, you’d like it.”

“I don't want to see it. I already know I’ll hate it.”

“That sounds like a you problem.” She shook her head in disapproval, sighing. “Look, I’m not going out just to get you coffee, so you’re either getting it on your own or getting used to life without it.”

“Mom-”

“I’m not going to argue about this, I have to get ready for work,” His mom cut him off again, exasperated. “It’s my first day at the office. I can’t afford to be late.” With that, she turned away and went back to her room, shutting the door behind herself, leaving Suna alone.

He stared at the bill in his hand and then at the empty coffee container, contemplating whether or not leaving the house was worth it.

  
  


An hour later, Suna found himself in the local grocery store. When he walked through the door, the cashier, who seemed to be around his age, greeted him, but Suna didn’t reply or acknowledge him. He simply made his way through the aisles with his head ducked low, completely silent, tossing the cheapest instant coffee he could find into his basket along with some jelly fruit snacks and a bottle of some random energy drink.

Wordlessly, he went up to the register and set his basket down on the counter. He nodded at the cashier instead of saying anything, hoping his silence would make it clear he didn’t want to talk.

The cashier didn’t get the memo.

“Hey!” He chirped as he pulled the basket towards himself, starting to scan the items. “How’re ya doin’?”

Suna blinked. “Uh, fine, I guess,” He said, staring down at the counter to avoid eye contact, hunched over slightly. “You?” He still didn’t feel like talking, but he didn’t want to be rude either.

“Tired,” Came the cashier’s answer. “I barely got any sleep.”

“Oh.” He shoved his hands in his pockets awkwardly, unsure what else to say.

“My brother kept me up all night,” He explained. Suna thought he was oversharing. “He was rewatchin’ some volleyball match he recorded a few days ago, but he had the volume set to max like a total jackass.” The cashier stopped ringing him up now and started gesturing with his hands instead, getting a little too into the conversation for someone supposed to be working. “I kept tellin’ him to turn it down, but he never listens, the bastard. He’s lucky ‘m a good person and I don't get physical too often.”

“The EJP Raijin game?” Suna still wanted this conversation— if you could call it that— to be over as soon as possible, but he was a volleyball nerd at heart. He couldn’t help asking; the question slipped out before he thought to shut up and let this thing die early on, like he definitely should’ve, in retrospect.

“Yeah, them and the Alders.” He said with a nod. “We watched it t’gether live, but he’s the type to obsess over matches, y’know? He likes to watch em’ over and over to study their plays and try to copy em’ and shit. ‘S kinda admirable but also annoyin’ when yer tryin’ to sleep.”

Suna shrugged. He’d caught the match on TV himself, being a huge fan of the Raijin, and he’d also recorded it for personal reference. “Well, in all fairness, it was a good game. Both teams are strong. You can learn a lot from watching them,” He pointed out.

“So now yer takin’ his side?” The cashier suddenly gawked, raising a hand to his chest in offense. Suna didn’t understand his reaction in the slightest. He didn’t care to either.

“I wasn’t aware I was taking a side,” He said, thoroughly unamused and honestly starting to get a headache. Volleyball was something he could _tolerate_ discussing with anyone, albeit begrudgingly, but not if it was wrapped up in some sort of intricate sibling dynamic between people he’d never met and never planned on seeing again.

The cashier crossed his arms. “Ya took one the second ya said it was good enough to justify him keepin’ me up.”

“I never said that,” Suna frowned, increasingly confused, his mouth a flat line, and his eyes still cast downward. The cashier hadn’t finished scanning his things yet, even though Suna could count them on one hand. His frown worsened. They should’ve been done by now.

“Ya basically did!” He insisted.

Suna’s eye twitched. His annoyance grew with each passing second. “No I didn’t.”

“It was implied.”

“No it wasn’t.” Suna scoffed. “I don't know him, how can I take his side?” He rolled his eyes then pointed at the cashier, finally making eye contact with him. He was shorter than Suna, with grey eyes and grey hair, thick brows, and an arguably handsome face. If he weren’t the reason Suna wanted to storm out of the store, he might’ve called him attractive. “I don't even know _you.”_

 _“_ My name’s-”

“I’m not interested in knowing you either,” Suna cut him off. At this point, he was past caring whether or not he came off as rude. He wanted to be home. He wanted this conversation to be over. He never wanted it to begin in the first place, actually, so he was more than content with saying whatever he needed to shut it down. This was something he did a lot. He always told himself he didn’t want to be mean, that he wanted to be polite, and he tried his best to uphold those thoughts, but the second he got frustrated he would end up abandoning them entirely in favor of getting snappish and rude. “Just finish ringing up my stuff so I can leave.”

His change in attitude only made the cashier glare and, much to Suna’s dismay, he didn’t start scanning things again, like he was supposed to, like he was paid to do.

Suna briefly contemplated the morality of murder

“Jeez, I know city people are cold, but this is a whole ‘nother level,” The cashier chided, “Why can’t I say my name, huh? Wha’s wrong with introducin’ myself? Why’re ya so hostile?”

“How’d you know I’m from the city?” Suna asked, avoiding everything else that’d been said, hung up on how the cashier knew where he was from. This did nothing to kill the conversation or help the situation, but he was curious, alright? Sue him.

The cashier looked unimpressed. “Really? Tha’s what ya chose to focus on?” He asked, indignant, then let out an over-dramatic sigh, relenting and, surprisingly, answering. “The way ya talk makes it obvious, dude. Ya fuckin’ reek of Tokyo.”

Suna squinted at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means ya sound like there’s a stick up yer ass. You've got one helluva city boy accent.”

“I don't have an accent,” he said, nose scrunching up in disgust.

“Yeah ya do-”

“Just ring up my stuff!” Suna snapped, cutting him off again, impatient and more than a little pissed off. “don't you have a job to do?”

The cashier stuck his tongue out. “Yer so rude.”

Suna barely held himself back from going off about how the cashier was the one being rude here, actually, and how he had gone out of his way to be polite at first despite hating talking to people, but he didn’t bother suppressing an annoyed groan. “ _Please_ ,” He added bitterly, watching as the cashier huffed and finally finished scanning his items.

Leaving the house definitely wasn’t worth it, he decided.

  
  


Days passed, and Suna felt like shit, his mood worsening and clawing at his skin, crawling all over him, trampling his body and leaving him dead in their wake. Or, wishing he was dead, at the very least. He’d always been a bit of a downer, but his depression was growing each day now that he’d left Tokyo, even if it should’ve been getting better. His dad was gone. He had no right to be upset. Still, his mom wasn’t great either, and he’d stopped talking to his old friends too, stopped going outside, stopped doing most things, started skipping meals again. It felt isolating to live in a small town where nobody knew him. He knew it was his own fault he felt so alone, but isolation was fuel to his emotional fire it seemed.

He’d been reading a lot of Tolstoy lately, if that hinted at his mental state. 

_War and Peace_ was a personal favorite of his, and he’d been working through it again, but he re-read _Family Happiness_ and _Death of Ivan Ilyich_ too. Clearly, he was miserable. He’d be reading Dostoyevsky if he had at least some amount of hope for the future. 

It didn’t help that his mom had thrown herself into her work. She was gone before he woke up and back by the time he was getting ready for bed, leaving him food she’d picked up the night prior each morning. They were barely speaking, despite his hopes for a better relationship now that they’d moved. He couldn’t help feeling resentful. He’d been trying at first, but his mom made it clear she wasn’t going to, so he gave up completely.

They were barely speaking, but his mom still insisted they eat dinner together on her day off. Why and for what purpose she insisted, Suna had no clue.

***

 _“What for?’ What reason was there to do anything while my best time was being lost, wasted like this? What for? And to the question ‘What for?’ there was no answer but tears.”_ _  
_ _\- Leo Tolstoy, Family Happiness, 1859_

***

That Sunday, the two of them were seated at the kitchen table, eating pork shogayaki. Or, well, his mom was eating. Suna was mostly picking at his bowl, bored out of his mind, skin-crawling from the awkward tension filling the room. He bit his lip and stared off into space, thinking of reasons to leave. He was bitter about his mom’s absence, but he wasn’t dumb either. He could sense conflict when it started to rear its ugly, little head.

“So, what’ve you been up to lately?” His mom said finally, breaking the silence.

Suna shrugged. “Not much,” He mumbled, “Reading, mostly.” He kept it vague. By now, he knew to leave most things unsaid. Too much information could reveal weakness, and hints at feelings could read as vulnerability. He knew to not reach out first, to not share what wasn’t necessary, and to bite his tongue and turn his cheek when able.

His mom wasn’t a monster. Far from it, actually. She could be nice when she wanted to be, making jokes and voicing concern, ruffling his hair, doing what she thought was best, buying him books he wanted and all that, but she was cold too. Detached, more often than not. The times she yelled at him for hours about grades or refused to speak with him for weeks were a stark contrast to the thousand yen from the other week.

They had never been particularly close, due to Suna’s closed-off nature and his mom’s lack of genuine care, but they’d bonded over his dad’s presence and behavior in the past. With him gone, there was nothing between them but blood, which wasn’t as thick as people believed. Suna wasn’t willing to take chances. He didn’t want to get hurt, and he didn’t know what their dynamic was without him. He wondered how things ended up like this. Wondered when he started being so nervous around her.

“Have you been studying?” His mom asked.

Suna frowned, stabbing at a piece of pork. “For what?”

“High school admissions,” She answered, immediately causing Suna to gnaw at his lip harder, inhaling sharply. He winced as if the topic physically hurt him. “They’ll be here before you know it. Summer’s almost over.”

He didn’t reply for a bit and turned his attention to his food, suddenly invested in eating. He stuffed his mouth to justify silence. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. Took another bite. Stabbed at his pork again. “No,” He admitted afterwards, slowly, all too aware of how hard it’d be to lie right now. Normally, he was a decent liar, but his body language would give him away right now. It’d be better to lie by omission. “I haven’t been studying.”

“Why not? You’re plenty smart and there are a few really good schools around here too. I’m sure you could get into one if you tried,” She said. “I know you didn’t do too well last year, but if we explain the situation I’m sure they’d understand. Admissions counselors can be surprisingly sympathetic about these things, you know. It’s not your fault you didn’t have the drive to get better grades. Your father was dragging us both down.”

“Mom I-” Suna started, before cutting himself off, his palms growing sweaty. Suddenly, he found himself unable to talk, rendered speechless due to nerves. His throat felt dry. His voice went quiet. Any words he might’ve said seemed to die in his throat as soon as they formed. He tried to force them out anyway, but they tumbled out incomprehensibly, stammered, blurred together and barely audible. “About that- I don't- Mom- I-”

“What? Spit it out, don't mumble. You know how I feel about mumbling.” The passive aggression did nothing to help, really.

“I-I wasn’t planning on applying, actually,” He stuttered, trying and failing to sound confident in his decision. His voice cracked. He cringed. “To school, I mean.”

His mom stared at him for a moment, expression unreadable. “You’re applying.”

“I don't want to.” Suna was looking anywhere but her.

“You have to,” She said, voice was firm and even. Ice cold. Sharp. Suna shuddered.

“I technically don't. It’s not compulsory or anything,” He tried to argue, though it sounded more like a plea. “Nobody’s forcing me to go.”

“I am,” His mom shot back, glaring now. “You’re going to school.” She went quiet and took a bite of her food, then gestured with her chopsticks, continuing right where she left off. “You don't have a choice.”

Suna shrunk back into himself. He hadn’t wanted to fight, didn’t want to argue, wanted to avoid conflict, but he wanted to be heard too, wanted to be understood. “But I hated school!” He stressed, “I don't think I should apply, really. Not with my like...” He trailed off, shoulders hunching. “My mental health.” It wasn’t something he liked bringing up, not since an argument they’d had a few months prior, but he decided it was necessary to mention it in order to remind her, so she’d know where he was coming from. His mom liked to pretend his issues didn’t exist or were completely fixed, but he thought she might get it if he told her the reason, even if he didn’t go in-depth with it. She knew he was mentally ill. She knew. She’d get it. She had to, right? “It wouldn’t be good for me.”

“Oh, and staying here all day is?” His mom raised her voice. Suna flinched. “Look at yourself, Rintarou, you’re wasting away. You never leave the house, and I’ve barely seen you since we moved-”

“-That’s because you haven’t been-”

“don't interrupt me.” Suna deflated further. If he hunched or curled or shrunk any more, he was sure he’d be slumped against the table completely, limp and lifeless, like a corpse. “You need to get out more, and school’s important. It’s good for your future.” He didn’t think so. “You need to start acting like you have one.” He didn’t. “I’ll print out a list of schools for you to apply to, and I’ll get the dates for their exams too. I expect you to start studying while I’m at work.” There was no room for argument.

Suna’s face cycled through a range of emotions. Angered. Upset. Nonplussed. Indifferent. He felt like shouting, like flipping the table, like packing a bag and boarding the first train to Tokyo. He stayed put. Gripped his chopsticks tighter. Grit his teeth. Fumed in silence. Who did his mom think she was? She was always gone lately, had always been gone before too. She didn’t know the first thing about him beyond what was immediately obvious. Why did she think she had the right to tell him what to do? How could she possibly think she knew best? She’d never raised him. He’d been his own parent for years now. She wouldn’t even listen to him when he spoke and would ignore anything about him deemed too unfavorable to be endearing. “Whatever,” he muttered under his breath.

His mom’s glare worsened. “I don't appreciate your tone,” she said flatly.

“Whatever!” Suna repeated, louder this time, practically spitting the words out. “I’ll go to school, are you happy?”

She clicked her tongue and tilted her head back ever so slightly, a subtle display of disapproval. “Are you?”

He couldn’t do this anymore. “I’m done eating,” Suna said, standing up. He set his chopsticks down and pushed his chair in, leaving his barely touched bowl on the table. “Goodnight, mom. Thanks for the food. I’ll see you next weekend if you can spare me the time.” He walked off, struggling to maintain composure until he made it to his bedroom, finally breaking as he locked the door behind him.

If he cried himself to sleep, that was between him and his pillow.

When Suna walked into the kitchen the next morning, he was greeted by a note on the counter with three thousand yen taped to it, penned in his mother’s hand, next to a stack of papers. He frowned and picked it up, scanning it over.

_Rintarou! I left early this morning, and I’ll be staying overnight in Kobe for work. Sorry about last night. I printed out a list of schools, please look them over. I also left some cash for you to go to the store and get things to make dinner. Love you loads! See you tomorrow._

_-Mom_

He scowled and crumpled the note up, tossing it in the trash and pointedly ignoring the stack of papers, grabbing the money and walking back to his room to get changed. He knew this was her way of making up for things, of maintaining appearances, but he couldn’t care less. 

She didn’t actually care about him, only about looking like she did. Her kindness was self-serving more often than not. She wanted to seem good, so she acted better than she was. This wasn’t inherently bad, lots of people did it to soothe their egos, but it still pissed Suna off to no end. If she wanted to be seen as a good person and wanted to act like one too, she could at least do a good job at it.

  
  


Suna set his basket down on the counter, and he gave the cashier— the same cashier as before— a nod in a lieu of a greeting, lips pressed together tightly in a thin, flat line. He wasn’t sure if it was mutual but, to him, the tension was palpable. Or, maybe he was just paranoid. Conversations had never been his forte but, lately, they all seemed to crash and burn at an alarming rate; their conversation from the other week and the argument with his mom last night was proof of that, and they were fresh in his mind.

“Hey!” The cashier said with a wave. “Fancy seein’ ya again, city boy! Are ya gonna act all rude this time too? Or did ya have a change of heart?” His tone was teasing and he smiled, light-hearted and friendly.

While he wasn’t the most socially ept, Suna could tell there was no hostility behind the words. The cashier spoke as if he were addressing an old friend, somebody he enjoyed talking to and spoke with regularly. Nothing about his expression hinted at bitterness or malice. He was joking, plain and simple. Suna nearly felt at ease.

Still, the joke only reminded him of the less than stellar exchange from a few weeks prior, and he felt increasingly uncomfortable. He wasn’t talking. There was a lump in his throat and the silence was hard to break. He didn’t care that much. Really, he didn’t. Conversations with strangers weren’t something he gave a damn about, and he certainly wasn’t concerned with what some random cashier thought about him. He didn’t enjoy being rude, but he didn’t mind being considered as such. People had opinions, so be it. He couldn’t change them. He was content. Live and let live, think and let think. People’s opinions didn’t concern him.

Except that thought process wasn’t working for him right now. _Neurotic_ , his mom called him once, and that word definitely came to mind. He was reminded of the day he got diagnosed with anxiety, among other things. 

_You don't need to care what people think to get anxious, Suna-san,_ the therapist told him, _Your brain isn’t that rational, despite what you may think. You can tell yourself over and over again that you don't care, and you might genuinely not care, but you’ll still worry until the end of time if you don't learn to cope. At our next appointment, I can help you learn to deal with those thoughts in healthy ways and give you outlets for your anxiety._

Suna never went to that second appointment. His mom canceled it.

He knew he was overthinking things, especially since the cashier didn’t seem to care nearly as much as he did, but his mind was too muddled to stop. He couldn’t parse it at all or rationalize things and explain away his feelings. He couldn’t convince himself he didn’t care. He couldn’t calm down. The prolonged isolation, the lackluster conversations he’d been having lately, his general dissatisfaction with everything, the dangerous amount of Russian lit, the depression— It was all piling up. His head was a mess. His thoughts were rapid and indecipherable but, more than anything, he was plagued by an overwhelming sense of guilt. Call him overdramatic, but he didn’t know how to talk to people and, right now, that made him feel like the worst person on earth.

Suna sighed. “I’m sorry about the other day,” He apologized, bowing his head, eyes squeezed shut. 

“Huh?” Was the cashier’s only reply, his confusion evident.

“I was rude, and I’m sorry,” Suna said, straightening his back. He opened his eyes but kept them averted, more interested in looking at the floor than anywhere else. “I was in a bad mood,” He explained. “Wasn’t feeling great.”

The cashier went quiet. When Suna dared flit his gaze up to his face, glancing only for a moment, he could’ve sworn he saw hints of concern. “Are ya feelin’ better now at least?” He asked after a bit.

Suna hesitated for a moment but answered honestly. “No,” he said quietly, shrugging. “Worse, if I’m being honest.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

Silence stretched between them again. Suna started picking at his fingers. The guilt wasn’t gone. Apologizing hadn’t helped, which sucked because he didn’t have any other ideas. He wished he could go back in time and have that therapist teach him how to cope. 

The cashier cleared his throat. “So, d’ya wanna talk ‘bout wha’s buggin’ ya?” 

Suna squinted at him. “I don't know you,” He said.

“No shit.” He rolled his eyes. 

“I mean, like-” Suna groaned, half in annoyance, half in frustration. “I don't know you well enough to tell you. I don't- I don't even-” He struggled to find words, gesturing vaguely with his hands, grasping at nothing like it meant something, like it’d convey what he was feeling. “I don't even know your name!”

The cashier didn’t seem phased by his inability to articulate. “And who’s fault is that?” He pointed out, smirking. “‘Cause I remember tryin’ to tell ya, but then ya told me, and I quote-” He paused to part his hair down the middle, narrow his eyes, and clear his throat before doing a horrible and unflattering impression of Suna’s voice. “I’m not interested in knowing you.”

“ _Touché_.” Suna was not amused. He placed a hand on the counter, continuing. “Regardless, my point still stands. We’re strangers. I can’t just share everything on my mind with you, that’d be weird. Strangers don't do that.” Though he had to admit, it was surprisingly easy to talk to this guy, even if he felt like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

“Well, ‘s only weird if ya make it weird, actually,” He argued, “And strangers are jus’ friends ya haven’t met yet. We could end up bein’ friends.”

“Why so optimistic?” Suna asked. “Sometimes strangers end up hating each other. We could be mortal enemies.” 

The cashier frowned at him. “Jeez, talk ‘bout a downer. I’m sure yer real fun at parties, city boy.”

“Suna.”

“What?”

“My name’s Suna. Stop calling me city boy.”

“Wow, yer actually tellin’ me yer name? And here I thought ya didn’t even wanna know me.” The cashier gave an over-dramatic gasp, playing up his reaction, all theatrics. He went as far as pretending to swoon. Suna wasn’t charmed and didn’t find it funny. “I feel honored, truly honored, and special too. I’d like to thank the academ-”

“I’m regretting this already.”

The cashier laughed. “Too bad! Ya already told me yer name, so ya can’t take it back now,” He said. “Nice to meet ya, Suna, ‘m Miya Osamu.”

“Why didn’t you use an honorific?” He asked.

“Why would I use one for a friend?” Osamu shot back, chuckling.

“We’re not friends, Miya-san,” Suna said flatly. Really, there was nothing charming about this guy, and he definitely didn’t chuckle along with him, and he _certainly_ wasn’t smiling.

Osamu pretended to shiver, hands clutching at his arms and teeth chattering. “So cold,” He said, “Well, I s’pose ya want me to actually start scannin’ yer stuff now, huh? Since ya got all snappy ‘bout it last time, and I’ve been yappin’ for a while now.”

Suna nodded, and the two of them fell silent. It was still uncomfortable but not painfully so. He still felt tense and awkward, but he didn’t feel like running out of the grocery and into traffic. He felt compelled to fill it too, which was rare. Normally, he’d rather melt into the surface of the earth than talk when he wasn’t obligated to. This wasn’t because Osamu made him feel at ease or anything like that. It was because he was lonely and had been lonely for a long time. That was all. It had nothing to do with Osamu, somebody he just met and barely knew.

“I got in a fight,” Suna mumbled after a bit, despite every part of his brain screaming at him for sharing his personal life with a stranger. A stranger whose name he knew, sure, but a stranger nonetheless. He paused. Frowned. Picked at his fingers more. Then added: “With my mom. We, uh, got in a fight.”

“About what?” Osamu asked.

“School,” Suna answered. “I told her I didn’t want to apply, since, y’know…” He trailed off, shrugging again and gesturing vaguely. “It’s not compulsory. Plus other reasons, I guess. I don't know. It’s complicated.” He frowned and started curling in on himself, a force of habit. “She wasn’t happy.” His shoulder hunched, making his already poor posture worse. “Middle school wasn’t great for me, and she knew that, but she still got mad.”

Osamu frowned. “Sounds rough.”

“Yeah.”

“Are ya gonna apply?”

“I have to. She’s making me,” Suna muttered, visibly displeased with the state of affairs. “She printed out a list of schools and everything.”

Osamu winced like it hurt him too. “Yikes,” He said, sympathetic. “Ya shouldn’t hafta do stuff ya don't wanna do.”

“I’ll live.”

“Still, ya shouldn’t hafta deal with that, ‘m sorry man. Y’know, ya oughta at least apply somewhere with stuff ya like. Extracurriculars an’ all that.”

Suna nodded, going quiet and mulling Osamu’s words over in his head. For whatever reason, he felt a bit less awful. Not comfortable, of course, he was rarely comfortable, but he didn’t feel the same horrible, skin-prickling misery he had when he’d walked into the store.

They both went quiet again, Suna in deep thought and Osamu doing his job for once.

“That’ll be two-thousand five hundred yen,” Osamu said after a bit, sliding the basket back across the counter for Suna to take.

Suna nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling the money out and handing it over. “Here,” he said. He made quick work of bagging his items and turned to leave.

“See ya around, Suna!” Osamu chirped, waving.

Suna paused mid-step and couldn’t help cringing. _Again with the lack of an honorific_ , he thought, but didn’t comment. He only sighed and waved back. “Sure,” He said, a hint of a smile gracing his face, “You too, Miya-san.”

  
  


In the following days Suna did, unfortunately, go through the list of schools his mom printed, researching each one of them and narrowing the list down to the few he could tolerate; ones with strong volleyball teams or large libraries and things of that nature. Osamu was right in telling him to apply for places with things he liked. It was hard to imagine himself at schools like Yakami Tech or Hakuryo Prep which, while high-ranking, had virtually no sports and were, undoubtedly, popular with students who actually gave a damn about their grades, of which Suna was not one.

The smaller list made studying easier, too. Less schools meant less material to go over, which gave Suna more free time, seeing as he did the bare minimum. It was still a pain, but he only studied enough to convince his mom he was trying because, in truth, he didn’t care whether or not he made it into the schools. He was going through the motions of this whole high school admissions thing, not the slightest bit invested in the outcome.

When he was done breezing over subjects, absorbing next to none of the material, he’d go back to reading like always, finding it to be a more enjoyable pastime. People expected a book nerd like him to be more studious, but they were wrong— fictional stories and characters he cared about were infinitely more interesting to him, even when it took work to understand what was happening. The books he read were hard to comprehend at times, with winding sentence structures, large casts, and double entendres in multiple languages, but they were a worthy pursuit, he thought, because they were fun. Studying material was hard to comprehend at times too, but it made him want to jump off a bridge and sucked all the happiness right out of him. There was no fun to be found in schoolwork. Therein laid the difference. 

Still, he managed to keep up with it for a surprising amount of time. A whole week passed of him studying for at least an hour every day, which was shocking by his standards. Unfortunately, that was about as long as he lasted. He started distracting himself as soon as he got into the swing of things, doing almost everything else he could think of that wasn’t reviewing material.

  
  


“What are you doing?” His mom asked as she walked into his room one day, standing in the doorway. She looked completely unimpressed when she saw he was sprawled out on his bed, typing away at his laptop instead of sitting at his desk, flipping through textbooks and sorting through flashcards.

Suna didn’t spare her a glance and kept his eyes focused on his screen. “Learning French,” He said, and it was true. In his quest to do anything other than what he was supposed to, he’d somehow ended up on a free language learning site, and had started procrastinating with French lessons of all things. It was a bit unexpected, considering how much he hated educational pursuits, but it wasn’t completely out of the blue; the language had always interested him. They spoke it often in the books he liked, it looked pretty, and it seemed cool, so he didn’t see any issue with learning it unprompted and wasn’t bored by it either. It’d make reading easier, too, which was a bonus. If he knew French he wouldn’t have to check the footnotes for translations. 

He’d been at it for a few hours now, going as far as taking notes. He was far more invested in this than his exams.

“Learning French,” His mom repeated, pulling a face and letting out an exasperated sigh. “Not that I don't support you,” She said, not sounding the least bit supportive, “But why are you doing that instead of studying?

“It’s part of the studying,” Suna lied easily, the words flowing quickly off his tongue. The action came naturally to him, like usual. The only reason he hadn’t lied to his mom the last time they spoke was because he was on the verge of a panic attack, and nerves always made his lying obvious, amplifying his usually subtle giveaways. “I read through the guidelines for the written portion of Inarizaki’s exam.” He didn’t know if they had a written portion or not. He had simply named the first school that came to mind. “They said something about knowing a third language giving you a competitive edge, and how it’d put you above other students.” It sounded believable enough, right? “I figured I’d learn enough French to put some in my essay. That way, I can get the edge without knowing the language.”

His mom stared at him for a moment in quiet contemplation. He looked up at her, maintaining eye contact. For a moment, it looked like she didn’t buy it, but her expression shifted to one of acceptance and Suna held himself back from sighing in relief. “I see,” She said, “Are you sure you’ll be able to learn enough?”

Suna nodded. “Definitely. I only need a few phrases, everything else would be written in Japanese and English. I just need enough to impress them.”

“Have you learned enough to say anything coherent yet?” His mom asked. “If you haven’t, you might as well give up. There’s not enough time if you’re not picking it up quickly.”

“ _J’en sais plus que toi,_ ” Suna said, shrugging. His pronunciation was butchered beyond the point of no return, and he wasn’t sure if the phrase was right or if it made sense, but his mom had no way of knowing how bad his French was. He was right, after all. He knew more than her, even if he barely knew anything.

She blinked. “I’ll leave you to it then,” She said, turning out of the room and shutting the door as she left.

  
  


Exams were there before Suna knew it, and they passed in a blur of instant coffee, boredom, and bus rides. He wasn’t confident in his scores on any of them, as he’d been half asleep and barely cognisant for their duration, but he was glad they were over. The pressure to study disappeared, and his mom was, albeit briefly, proud of him for his supposed efforts. She even cooked him dinner the night after his last exam. While she wasn’t home to eat it with him, it was appreciated. He’d been cooking for himself most nights, and only half of what he made tasted any good. 

He didn’t have to study anymore, but he didn’t give up on learning French. He’d certainly thought about it— pronunciation was a nightmare, the phonology was confusing, and it was harder than he’d expected— but, when he picked up _War and Peace_ again and was able to read through a chapter without checking the footnotes, he decided the struggle of learning was more than worth it. The writing flowed nicer when he didn’t have to pause to figure out what they were saying, even if the chapter he was on barely had any French. So, he kept with it, now determined to achieve some amount of fluency in the language.

It didn’t take long for letters from schools to pour in. Most of them were rejections, unsurprisingly, but he’d been accepted into Inarizaki. _Your French must’ve helped your essay,_ his mom praised, and he didn’t bother telling her that an essay hadn’t been required. He just smiled and nodded.

Two weeks later, he woke up early and walked to school dressed in his new uniform, half-asleep and filled with dread. School had never been a great environment for him, and he wasn’t expecting that to change. He entered the classroom, taking a seat near the back, and cracked open a book to kill time until the day actually started. He had a lot of ideas for how the day would go, none of them good, but he hadn’t expected to see any familiar faces, so his shock was more than evident when he saw Osamu walking into the classroom.

  
  


“Suna?” Osamu said, taking a seat at the desk next to him and setting his bag by the chair. Suna glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. His hair was still dyed the same shade of grey, but he’d finally touched up the roots, which had been overgrown the last time they saw each other. He was smiling too, like always.

 _He looks good in a school uniform,_ Suna thought before he could stop himself. He bit his lip.

“Miya-san,” He greeted nonchalantly, turning back to his book, face slightly flushed. He flipped a page. Tolstoy’s work had never been so hard to focus on.

“Ya shoulda told me ya were goin’ to Inarizaki,” Osamu huffed. “We coulda walked to school t’gether this mornin’.” He unzipped his bag and pulled out a few notebooks, placing them on his desk along with a pencil case. “Woulda beat walkin’ with ‘Tsumu.”

Suna still didn’t know who that was, so he gave a noncommittal shrug. “I didn’t know you were going here too and, even if I did, I wouldn’t’ve walked all the way to the store to tell you. That would’ve been overkill.” Just thinking about it had him yawning, but that might’ve been because he barely got any sleep. He’d gotten used to staying up late and sleeping in until noon over the summer. “Sounds like too much work.”

Osamu frowned. “Ya coulda gone to my house,” he muttered, puffing his cheeks out.

Suna gave him a look, confused. He raised a brow. “I don't know where you live,” He said, “How the fuck would I walk to your house? Do you expect me to knock on random doors and hope they’re yours?”

“Oh,” Osamu said, blinking. He shuffled his feet awkwardly under the desk and started to fidget with the hem of his sleeve. “Right, I forgot ya didn’t know.”

“Dumbass,” Suna snorted.

“I see ya didn’t stop bein’ rude.” He stuck his tongue out. “Lucky us, though, huh?” He nudged Suna, smiling. “We already got a friend to eat lunch with and stuff like that. Makes our lives easier, ‘cause we don't gotta stress ‘bout findin’ new people to hang around. Ain’t that great?”

Suna flipped another page in his book. He forced his face to stay completely neutral. “We’re not friends. I already told you that.”

“Yer so damn cold,” Osamu teased, shuddering. “What do I gotta do for us to be friends?”

“I don't know,” Suna said honestly. He’d never had a real friend before. All the people he talked to in Tokyo were friends in name only, which was one of the reasons he cut ties with them after moving, even if it’d led to his isolation. 

Osamu stared at him, incredulous. “The hell d’ya mean ya dunno? How d’ya not-”

“Shut up,” Suna said, interrupting him. He pointed to their new teacher as subtly as he could, not giving Osamu a chance to object or complain. “She’s about to start taking roll.”

  
  


After hearing the teacher say ‘Suna Rintarou’ and raising his hand to announce his presence, Suna checked out mentally. Classes went by, people chattered around him, and assignments were handed out, but he barely paid any attention, spending every ounce of free time with his nose in his book, maintaining a healthy distance from all his peers, Osamu included. It wasn’t until the lunch bell rang and he felt a desk push up against his that he was pulled out of the little world he withdrew into.

Despite his constant insistence they weren’t friends, Suna didn’t object when he saw Osamu holding his lunchbox up in a silent question. _Can I eat with you?_ He said nothing, but pulled his own bento out, cracking it open wordlessly, the closest thing to a _yes_ he was willing to give.

  
  


“So,” Osamu started, “Yer first name’s Rintarou?” He opened his lunchbox as he spoke, revealing an array of delicious, homemade food. Upon seeing it, Suna couldn’t deny his jealousy. He looked down at his own lunch, now dissatisfied with the leftover fried rice he packed. It looked rather bland in comparison.

“Yes,” He said, starting to eat his food anyway. It’s not like he knew how to cook anything that looked as good, and his mom certainly didn’t have the time, so there was no use getting upset. No rational use, at least. He tried to suppress the feeling. “Don't call me it.”

Osamu pulled his chopsticks out and gestured with them. “I won’t,” He assured, “I know we ain’t close enough for that yet.” He smiled, taking a bite of the tonkatsu he brought.

Suna squinted at him, confused and a bit judgemental. “But we’re close enough for you to drop honorifics?”

“Yes?” Osamu said through a mouthful of food, barely decipherable. Suna grimaced finding both his lack of boundaries and his lack of manners to be gross. In his head, he could easily picture the lecture his mom would give him if he behaved like that.

“I don't think I’ll ever understand your line of logic with that,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head. “It makes no sense.” 

Osamu chuckled. “Sure it does,” He said, without elaborating on how it did.

They both went quiet, too focused on eating to talk to each other. Surprisingly, though, the silence wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest. Suna felt oddly okay with it, actually. His nerves were calm, his palms weren’t sweaty, and he didn’t feel like running home and hiding in his room forever, like he’d expected. He was fine. His shoulders relaxed, and he smiled as he ate. This was fine.

“Wha’s that book yer readin’ ab-” Osamu started to say, breaking the silence, but he was cut off by the classroom door slamming open, revealing a boy from another class.

Suna blinked and wiped at his eyes, convinced he was seeing double. The boy looked identical to Osamu, save for his hair, which was blonde and parted in the opposite direction. _This must be Osamu’s brother,_ Suna realized, quickly followed by: _Holy shit, they’re twins._

“Yo! ‘Samu!” He shouted, running up to Osamu’s desk. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Suna. “Woah, who’s this guy? He yer friend or somethin’?” He asked and, although he pointed to Suna, he was looking at Osamu, expecting him to answer.

“He’s-”

“Suna Rintarou,” Suna interrupted, shifting the attention towards himself; he didn’t appreciate being talked about like he wasn’t in the room. 

Something like recognition flashed in the other boy’s eyes, and he put his hand on Osamu’s desk. “Oh, Suna, huh?” He drawled, glancing at his brother and smirking. Osamu mumbled under his breath, but they both ignored him.

“Yes, that’s what I just said,” Suna muttered, unamused. “And you are?”

“Miya Atsumu,” He said, grinning. “This loser’s my brother.”

Suna stared at him, expressionless. “I never would’ve guessed. You look nothing alike,” He deadpanned. He turned to Osamu. “You live with this guy? My condolences.” 

“don't say that!” Atsumu cried. “Ya make it sound like livin’ with me is some kinda death sentence!”

“It is,” Osamu said immediately, no hint of hesitation.

Atsumu scowled at them, and they chuckled. “Shuddup!” He huffed then shook his head, moving on. “Anyway, yer the guy from the grocery store, right?” He asked Suna, changing the subject to Osamu’s dismay, who looked embarrassed for whatever reason.

“Uh, yeah?” Suna confirmed with a nod, confused. “How’d you know?”

Atsumu laughed at that. Osamu seemed borderline distressed. “‘Samu wouldn’ quit talkin’ ‘bout ya when he got home an-” He broke off into a yelp mid-sentence when he was kicked in the shin. “Ow,” He hissed, glaring at Osamu. “Why’d ya do that?”

Osamu didn’t answer. “What the hell d’ya want?” He asked instead, glaring too.

“I forgot my lunch,” Atsumu said simply, not put off by his brother’s aggression or lack of an answer. Suna figured this sort of exchange was normal for them.

Osamu rolled his eyes. “Of course ya did,” He said, grabbing an onigiri from his lunchbox and holding it out for him to take. “Tha’s all yer gettin’, so don't try askin’ for more. Yer luck ‘m givin’ ya anythin’.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Atsumu said, waving a hand dismissively. “Thanks for the food!” He grinned and turned to leave, snickering. “Have fun with yer new friend!”

“We’re not friends,” Suna called after him.

“If ya say so!” Atsumu chirped as he walked out the door.

When he finally closed the door, Osamu sighed, collapsing against his desk. “Good fuckin’ riddance,” He mumbled into the wood. Eventually, he turned his head and peered up at Suna through his hair. “Sorry ‘bout him.”

“It’s fine,” Suna said. “I feel sorry for you, if anything. Does he always barge into your class like that?”

“Only when he forgets stuff,” Osamu said, shrugging. 

“And how often is that?”

He paused and started counting on his fingers, running numbers in his head, but he gave up halfway through. “Too often, now that ‘m actually thinkin’ ‘bout it,” He said, “He did this, like, every other day back in middle school.”

Suna frowned. “How are you still alive?”

“I guess ‘m jus’ numb to it by now, ‘s all. He’s been this way since we were little,” Osamu explained. “‘Tsumu’s always been a prick, and I always gotta deal with him. Tha’s jus’ how it is.”

“Sounds like hell,” Suna said, his nose scrunching up in disgust. He’d never been happier to be an only child.

“It is.”

“ _C’est la vie._ ”

Osamu’s jaw dropped, and he gawked at him, eyes wide. “Ya know French?” He asked, sitting up. “Wait- Tha’s French, right? I mean, it definitely ain’t Japanese, and it don't sound like English either. I don't really know how other languages sound, though, so ‘m jus’ assumin’ really-”

“It’s French,” Suna said, not understanding why Osamu was so shocked. It wasn’t particularly impressive. He looked down at his fried rice, poking at it and then continuing. “And, well, I’m working on learning it, but _C’est la vie_ is just a common phrase. Lots of people say it, even if they don't know French.” He took a bite of his food. “I said it before I started learning.”

“I’ve never heard anyone say it.”

“That’s because you’re a hick.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true.”

“Well, yeah, but-” Osamu sputtered uselessly, huffing. “Doesn’t mean ya gotta say it! ‘Sides, yer a city boy, which ‘s jus’ as bad.”

Suna glanced at him. “Did I say being a hick was bad?”

Osamu’s expression was unreadable and he quickly turned away, muttering something incomprehensible and stuffing his face with food, avoiding eye contact. Suna took it as a cue to go back to eating. They fell into relative silence again.

“Suna?” Osamu said after a few minutes went by.

“Yeah?”

“What does c’es- s- suh- c’e-” He stumbled with the pronunciation, tripping and struggling to get the words out properly. Suna cringed as he listened. “What does say luh vee mean?”

Lunch wrapped up quickly, and the rest of the day flew past him in the blink of an eye. When students started filing out of the classroom, Suna shrugged his bag onto his shoulders and started making his way to the gym, hands shoved in his pockets. Inarizaki’s volleyball club was one of the main reasons he applied for the school, so he figured he’d check it out. He doubted he’d make it onto the team— it was a powerhouse school, and he didn’t consider himself to be noteworthy in any way— but it couldn’t hurt to show up.

In retrospect, Suna shouldn’t have been surprised to see Osamu when he walked into the gym. They’d talked about volleyball in passing once, so it made sense for him to play. Still, he couldn’t stop his brows from flying up and his mouth from falling open, just slightly, to a barely noticeable degree. He wasn’t the most expressive person, rarely emoting, and most people didn’t catch his subtle changes in expression. Osamu picked up on his shock, though.

“Surprised?” He teased, grinning. “Looks like yer stuck with me outside of class too.”

“Where’s your brother?” Suna asked, “You, uh, mentioned him playing a while back, I think. Shouldn’t he be here? All first years interested in joining are supposed to be meeting in the gym.”

Osamu laughed. “I saw him in the hall earlier, actually,” He explained, “His teacher was lecturin’ him ‘bout respectfulness. He should be here any sec now.”

As if on cue, Atsumu trudged into the gym, mopping and mowing, head hung low. “Harukawa-sensei is so fuckin’ strict,” He practically pouted as he walked over to them, crossing his arms. “I can’t believe I got stuck with the worst homeroom teacher in our whole grade. D’ya know how much he sucks? ‘Cause he’s awful, seriously.”

“Dude, ‘s the first day of school, how’d ya manage to get in trouble already?” Osamu asked, unphased by and unimpressed with his brother’s whining, but thoroughly amused. “What the hell did ya even do?”

“Nothin’!” Atsumu insisted quickly, defensive. “I ain’t lyin’. I didn’t do anythin’, really, I swear.”

Before he could explain himself further, the team’s captain walked to the center of the room, followed by a band of, frankly, intimidating second and third years, all dressed in the school’s trademark maroon tracksuits. “Alright! Nice to see some fresh faces this year,” He said, clapping his hands together, “How about we start with introductions, hm? First years, line up and say yer name and position one at a time. We’ll go from right to left. Sound good?”

Everybody nodded and voiced their approval, getting into an organized line fairly quickly, with Suna standing between the twins near the beginning of it. There weren’t many people, so he didn’t expect this to take long, and he started practicing his introduction over and over in his head since he knew he’d be going second. He didn’t want to mess this up and ruin the team’s first impression of him. 

Osamu was up first, and he took a step forward, giving a friendly wave and scanning over the gym. “Yo, ‘m Miya Osamu and ‘m a wing spiker. I look forward to playin’ with all of ya,” He greeted, stepping back into the line and turning to Suna, giving him an expectant look.

Suna nodded and stepped forward. “I’m Suna Rintarou,” He said, voice tense and stilted. He avoided eye contact as he spoke. “I’m a middle blocker.” He stood there for a moment, somewhat awkwardly, then bowed his head and stepped back next to Osamu, letting out a deep breath. In all fairness, it hadn’t gone too horribly, just a bit stiff. He’d live. 

Atsumu went next. “Hey!” He chirped, hands on his hips. “The name’s Miya Atsumu, and ‘m gonna be the startin’ setter this year whether ya like it or not-” Suna started tuning him out at that point.

  
  


First years were separated from everyone else for the entirety of practice. The coaches spent the whole time testing their skills and seeing what they were made of, seeing how they measured up to each other and to the players already on the team. They got a good look at their serves, spikes, blocks and receives by running them through drill after drill after drill. 

Unsurprisingly, the Miya twins flew through each of them with flying colors, effortlessly dazzling everyone watching. They shone blindingly bright, captivating the entire gym, demanding attention with every move, casting an impossibly large shadow as they soared through the air. They were stars and planets, entire galaxies of their own; Suna felt their pull. He couldn’t look away. If he hadn’t already met them, he’d be intimidated.

He went through the drills with far less care than the twins had. He was, effectively, outshone and couldn’t possibly leave that same lasting, awe-striking impression they did, so he didn’t see a point in trying too hard. He hadn’t planned on going above and beyond in the first place, honestly, only planned on showing up and doing as instructed. He moved lazily, putting in the bare minimum required. There was a practiced grace to each of his movements, but they were nothing special, his spikes just hard enough to score, serves just fierce enough to make it over, and blocks just quick enough to be effective. Nothing impressive. Everything just.

The first years were dismissed early, as they had no official place in the club yet, and were told to come back the next day if they intended to join. Suna shook hands with the coaches and captain, bowing and thanking them for the opportunity. He wasn’t a standout player, not by any means, and was easily forgotten in favor of those better than him. But, he hoped, at the very least, they’d let him into the club and save him a seat in the stands. He was content simply practicing and watching from afar. Effort was foreign to him. He rarely did more than he had to. He didn’t expect attention and didn’t expect a jersey. Save the cheers and team spots for people who cared, who put their all into the game and broke a sweat, who showed up early and stayed behind late. He didn’t need them. 

To him, volleyball was like reading: meaningless fun and worth a bit of work, worth hours of diligence and dedication, but not worth struggling. If a book was too hard to be enjoyable, he read a different one. If the coaches wanted more than he could give without breaking his back, he would sit games out. Simple as that. 

  
  


Osamu approached Suna as he was leaving the gym, smiling lazily, bag slung over his shoulder and sleeves pushed up to the elbows. “Hey, Suna! Wait up! Are ya walkin’ home?” He asked as he fell into step beside him, giving a small wave. Suna nodded. “Great. Can I walk with ya?”

“Do we walk the same way?” Suna questioned. He raised a brow and cocked his head to the side. “I live near the train tracks on the outskirts.”

“Dunno, but I don't think so,” Osamu admitted, “Does it matter, though? I don't mind goin’ a bit outta the way.”

Suna squinted, pressing his lips together and staring at him for a moment, puzzled. “If we don't live in the same direction, you’d have to do a lot of extra walking. It’d be more than a ‘bit’ out of the way,” He said, “And I’d hate to make you do that.”

“Yer not makin’ me do anythin’,” Osamu insisted. “I jus’ wanna make sure yer fine with it.” He hummed. “If ya don't want me walkin’ with ya jus’ say so.”

“I won’t stop you,” Suna said, “But why bother?”

To that question, there was no answer but a shrug, a light laugh, and a glint in Osamu’s eyes as he grinned.

  
  


The next morning, Suna woke up to a series of knocks on his front door at an hour far too early for humans to be functioning. He crawled out of bed reluctantly, stumbling over in a half-asleep stupor, shirtless and dressed in oversized, fleece pajama pants. He swung the door open, expecting the mailman to be standing there with a package for him to sign in his mom’s place, which was something he’d woken up to a few times already.

Instead, he was greeted by Osamu, who was privileged enough to witness Suna in all his messy-haired, baggy-eyed glory. Osamu was wearing his school uniform already, shirt buttoned fully and tie tied properly. He was wide awake too, somehow, by some miracle. How he managed that was a mystery to Suna. 

Suna stared down at him, wiping at his eyes, still groggy. It took him a moment to process what was happening, and he didn’t have the energy to bother deciphering the look on Osamu’s face. “Huh?” He mumbled, ever so eloquently. “What’re you-” He broke off into a yawn. " _Huh?”_

“G’mornin’!” Osamu greeted, smiling far too brightly for the hour. “Yer doorbell’s broken.”

“Thanks, I had no idea,” Suna deadpanned. “Why’re you here? Shouldn’t you be asleep? It’s like-” He paused, squinting at the sunrise, which was also far too bright for the hour. “Way too early.”

Osamu didn’t seem put off by how tired he was. “Wanna walk to school t’gether?” He asked. “‘Tsumu’s gonna tag along, so I won’t blame ya for sayin’ no. He’s insufferable.” Suna could hear Atsumu object in the distance. His expression must’ve given away his confusion because Osamu was quick to offer an explanation. “He’s sittin’ on yer porch waitin’ for us.”

Suna blinked. A billion questions ran through his mind at lightning speed, despite how slow the rest of his brain and body were moving. _Why so early? Why’d you go to the effort of coming here? Why do you want to walk together again? Why me? Why?_ He didn’t voice any of them, too tired to talk more than he had to. He just nodded. It’s not like walking with the twins would kill him, and it’d probably be nice. He could use the company. “Sure, whatever,” He said. “Just give me a minute to get dressed and make coffee.”

“Can we come inside?” Osamu asked, tilting his head and leaning over in an attempt to peek through the doorway and into the house.

“No,” Suna said quickly, stepping to the side and blocking his view.

Atsumu groaned from where he sat, making his presence known again. “But ‘s hot out here!” He complained, whining. “I’m burnin’ up! Jus’ let us in, we won’t break anythin’, I promise.”

“don't care, you’re not coming in,” Suna said firmly despite feeling like he was seconds from passing out then and there. His tone made it clear there was no room for argument. “Wait out here,” He instructed. “I won’t take long,”

  
  


True to his word, Suna was in and out quickly, rushing more than he normally would. His morning routine took barely any time to begin with, honestly: He changed his clothes, brushed his teeth, styled his hair, put on deodorant, made coffee, thought about eating, didn’t eat, tugged his shoes on, and left the house, still tired but less so. He’d never been a morning person, so it was an honest to god miracle he was up right now, and even more of a miracle that he hadn’t shut the door in Osamu’s face.

“Hey,” He said as he stepped back outside, a travel mug of coffee in hand. He took a sip. The twins were sitting together now, hunched over Atsumu’s phone and laughing over some video Suna couldn’t see. They turned to him when he spoke.

“Took ya long enough, damn!” Atsumu stuck his tongue out, turning his phone off and shoving it in his pocket. “I was startin’ to think ya died in there, Suna, we’ve been waitin’ ages-”

Osamu slapped him upside the head, brows furrowed. “Shut up,” He snapped before turning to Suna, apologetic. “Jus’ ignore him, ya didn’t take that long.”

“Yes he did.”

Osamu jabbed him in the ribs this time, and Atsumu pouted. “Quit bein’ an ass.”

“Yer the real ass here, ‘Samu!” Atsumu argued. “Yer slappin’ me around like ‘m some sorta punchin’ bag, and I didn’t even do anythin’!”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

Suna watched the scene unfold with trace amounts of amusement in his eyes, mildly entertained. He laughed, light and sleepy, too tired to hold himself back or cover his mouth like he usually did.

Osamu froze, blinking up at Suna. His glare melted away into something less harsh and, again, Suna didn’t have the energy to decipher his expression. Osamu cleared his throat. “So, uh, ya ready to start walkin’?” He asked, standing up and brushing off his pants. Atsumu followed suit.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Suna said, taking another sip of his coffee.

The three of them started walking down the gravel driveway, and the twins picked up their bikes, which they’d pushed into the grass upon arrival. Suna hadn’t noticed they were there. 

“D’ya not have a bike?” Atsumu asked as he got on his own, one foot on the concrete road to keep himself balanced. He started pedalling at a slow pace once he was seated. Suna lagged slightly behind him.

“No, I never learned how to ride one,” He said.

“Seriously?”

Suna shrugged. He never cared to learn, and his parents hadn’t cared to teach him.

“I can’t believe ya don't know how to ride a bike,” Atsumu murmured, shaking his head in disapproval.

“Quit makin’ fun of him,” Osamu scolded, riding beside his brother. “Yer lucky we’re on our bikes now, ‘cause I’d slap ya if we weren’t.”

Atsumu huffed. “I ain’t makin’ fun of him, though!”

Suna trailed behind them as they started bickering again. It was entertaining to watch, he had to admit. He could get used to this. It was certainly better than walking alone.

  
  


They arrived way before classes started, much to Suna’s dismay. He complained about how he could’ve gotten more sleep, how they could’ve waited to start walking, how they didn’t need to wake up so early, but the twins told him Inarizaki sold milk bread and wheat cakes in the morning, so showing up early was worth it, actually. He disagreed. Still, they were already there, so he didn’t object when they started walking towards the school store, but he didn’t buy anything either.

  
  


When they made it to their classroom, Osamu sat on his desk and unwrapped the milk bread he bought, tearing it in two, careful not to crush it. “Here,” He said as he held out half of it for Suna to take. “Consider it an apology for wakin’ ya up so early. I could tell ya were tired.”

Suna shook his head. “No thanks, I’m not hungry,” He said, only partially lying. He’d gotten so used to skipping meals that ignoring his hunger was second nature. Despite this, his stomach growled as soon as he was done talking, betraying him. He looked away, sheepish.

“Bullshit,” Osamu said, completely unimpressed. “Did ya even eat this morning?”

As much as he wanted to, Suna knew he couldn’t lie his way out of this. He sighed. “No,” He admitted. 

“I knew it,” Osamu said. “Jus’ take the bread, ‘s not a big deal.”

Suna took it from him a bit reluctantly, mumbling his thanks as he bit into it. It wasn’t that great, he thought, certainly not worth waking up so early, but he was surprised by how hungry he felt now that he was actually eating. He took another, larger bite, and quickly scarfed down the rest. “How’d you know I didn’t eat?”

“Ya woulda taken longer if ya ate,” Osamu said with a shrug, like it was obvious. “Did ya skip breakfast jus’ ‘cause ‘Tsumu and I were waitin’?” He asked, taking a bite of his half of the bread. “Ya didn’t have to do that, y’know. Ya coulda taken yer time. ‘Tsumu’s a drama queen, he woulda complained no matter what.”

“It wasn’t because of you guys,” Suna assured. “I usually skip breakfast. It had nothing to do with you.”

“Suna, what the fuck?” Osamu stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, muttering something inaudible under his breath. “Christ, ya need to eat more. No wonder ya look like a twig. Hold on a sec-” He set his bread down and reached for his bag, unzipping it and pulling out his bento. He opened it up, grabbed two onigiri, and held them out. “Take these.”

Suna frowned. “Just the bread was enough,” He said, already feeling like he took too much.

“No it ain’t,” Osamu insisted. “Take the food, ya need it more than me.”

“Miya-”

_“Take it.”_

Suna hesitated for a moment, wanting to reject the food. He didn’t want to be a charity case and he didn’t want to take advantage of kindness. He knew Osamu wouldn’t relent, though, and he felt his stomach growl again, louder this time, desperate for more food, so he took the onigiri. Osamu smiled and watched as he took a bite. Suna’s eyes lit up, sparkling. “It’s good,” he said softly, taking another bite, rice sticking to his face. It’d been too long since he had actual, good homemade food. This was like heaven on earth. “It’s really good, thank you.”

  
  


“Fried rice again?” Osamu asked during lunch the next day, peering over at Suna’s food. “Tha’s the third time this week, aren’t ya tired of it?”

“It’s one of the only things I know how to cook,” Suna said with a shrug, feeling a bit embarrassed. He was hoping nobody would comment on his lunch being the same thing every day.

“Really?”

Suna nodded. “Yep, and my mom won’t make me lunch, so I’m kinda just…” He trailed off, taking a bite of his fried rice before continuing. “Stuck with this, I guess.” 

Osamu frowned at him, a crease forming between his brows. 

“Don't give me that look,” Suna snapped. “Fried rice every day isn’t the end of the world. It tastes fine.”

Osamu didn’t buy it. His frown worsened, and Suna shrunk back, giving up.

“Okay, okay, it doesn’t taste that great, I’m not a good cook,” He admitted, “But it’s better than nothing, right? Didn’t you want me to eat more?”

“It’s good that yer eatin’, it jus’ sucks that ya don't get to eat good food,” Osamu sighed. He bit into one of the potato croquettes he brought. “Eatin’ good food is one of the best things on earth.” He turned to Suna. “I can teach ya how to cook if ya want.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

Osamu shook his head. “Nah, not at all,” He assured. “I do most of the cookin’ for my family, and I like it a lot, so it ain’t a big deal.” He smiled. “I think it’d be fun, actually.”

Suna felt his face heat up slightly, and he turned away, cheeks dusted with pink. “Alright,” He said softly. “I’ll let you know when I’m free.”

“Okay,” Osamu said. “Trade bentos with me today, though. I think ‘m gonna die if I hafta see ya eat more of yer shitty fried rice.”

“But then _you’ll_ have to eat my shitty fried rice-” Suna tried to object, but Osamu was already swapping their bentos, and the potato croquettes, eggs, cabbage, and onigiri in front of him looked too delicious for him to say no. “Thanks,” He said instead, face flushing further when he realized this was the second time Osamu fed him. 

“No problem,” Osamu said, “I bring two lunches every day, so yer not takin’ away all my food, don't worry.” He took a bite of Suna’s fried rice and grimaced. “Damn, this is awful. How’d ya manage to fuck it up so bad?”

  
  


Two weeks later, in the locker room after practice, Osamu turned to Suna while tugging his shirt over his head. “Oi, Suna,” He said casually, crumpling the fabric up and cramming it into his bag. “D’ya like chocolate?”

Suna nodded, careful to keep his gaze focused on the locker in front of him. He made it a point to avoid looking at anyone while they changed. The last thing he wanted was to be seen as a creep. “Yeah, I do. Why?” He pulled his own shirt off, using it to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

“A girl gave me a whole box of Meltykiss chocolates today,” Osamu explained. “I can’t finish em’ on my own, and ‘m not about to let ‘Tsumu have any, so I was wonderin’ if ya wanted some.”

“Girls are already giving you chocolate?” Suna asked, raising a brow. “We’re not even halfway through the semester.” 

Osamu laughed, and it took extra effort for Suna to keep his eyes to himself. “Are ya jealous?” He teased.

“No, not particularly,” Suna said, shaking his head. “That sort of attention would get annoying fast. I don't know how you and your brother put up with it.” If the attention were coming from guys, he might reconsider but, as it stands, hordes of straight girls clambering for his attention sounded like hell.

“It’s sorta annoyin’,” Osamu admitted, “But ‘s kinda flatterin’ too, y’know? Makes me feel cool.” He grinned as he changed into a clean shirt. “Besides, the chocolate’s nice, ‘m not gonna complain ‘bout gettin’ free snacks.” He put on his track jacket, rolling the sleeves up. “D’ya want some or not?”

Suna shrugged and zipped his jacket up too. “Sure, why not. What flavor are they?”

“Matcha.”

  
  


Summer gave way to fall in a cascade of honey-colored leaves and yellowing grass; time passed in a blur of schoolwork, volleyball, and old books. Days were simple, and Suna was content. 

Walks with the twins, lunches with Osamu, after school practice, study sessions, split bread, candy, and shared bentos— there was happiness in all of these, he found. Nothing was perfect, he didn’t expect it to be, but things were fine. Even with his mom at work and his mind actively working against him, they were fine, surprisingly. 

Hyogo was slowly becoming a home as Suna made place for himself in the tiny town around him. 

He’d never admit it, but he considered Osamu a friend. Atsumu, too, but he was even more reluctant to admit that, fearing it’d inflate the setter’s already massive ego. They were nice company despite being insufferable at times. Suna didn’t feel pressured to be anyone other than himself around them. It was nice, he thought. 

He even started calling them their first names which, unfortunately, came at the expense of being called ‘Sunarin’, a nickname he considered as endearing as he did annoying. After a few weeks of hearing it nonstop— in class, in passing, during practice, during walks— he gave up on objecting, simply accepting that he was and always would be Sunarin to the twins.

  
  


“G’morning, Sunarin!” Osamu greeted one day when Suna opened the door, smiling and waving. Although he’d gotten used to waking up early for the twins, Suna was still continually baffled by how Osamu— and Atsumu, by extension— managed to function before noon without caffeine, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever understand. 

“Morning.” He waved back. Osamu was alone, he noticed, which was odd; the twins were usually a package deal. Suna poked his head out the doorway, looking for Atsumu on the porch and raising a brow when he wasn’t there either. “Just you today?” He asked.

“Yeah, ‘Tsumu’s sick,” Osamu explained. 

“What a shame,” Suna deadpanned. “I have no clue how we’ll go on without him.”

Osamu snickered. “Yeah, ‘s real tragic, I know. I wept for hours this mornin’ when he said he wasn’t gonna come,” He joked, sarcastic. “Ready to go?” He asked, already walking towards the road.

Suna nodded, stepping off the porch and following behind him, humming his affirmation.

Osamu picked his bike up and climbed on, putting his foot on one of the pedals before freezing up, lips parting as he remembered something. He turned to Suna suddenly. “Oh, yeah!” He said. “I put pegs on my bike, so ya don't hafta walk.”

“What?” Suna asked, blinking, his head tilted to the side.

“Pegs. I put em’ on my bike.” Suna was still confused, so Osamu chuckled, trying his best to elaborate. “They’re for, like, tricks an’ stuff, but ya can jus’ stand on em’ too so ya can ride with me. They’re on the back wheel.” He pointed to the pegs.

Suna looked down at them. He pursed his lips, brows knitting together. “Won’t that make it harder to ride?” He asked.

Osamu shrugged. “I don't mind.”

“You sure?”

“Positive,” Osamu said with a nod and a grin, giving a thumbs up.

“Well, alright, I can’t argue with that.” Suna adjusted his bag so it was slung over his shoulder properly, and he walked up to Osamu’s bike, lifting his foot into the air and placing it onto one of the pegs cautiously, somewhat unsure. “I just stand on them, right? I don't have to do anything else?”

“Yep, but yer gonna wanna put yer hands on my shoulders too so ya don't fall off.”

  
  


Suna had feelings for Osamu.

The bike ride hadn’t been a catalyst for that realization— he’d known it for a while now, in the back of his head, knew it since they met— but here, with his hands on Osamu’s shoulders, with the morning wind in his hair, with the countryside passing by as they sped downhill, it was impossible to ignore the way he felt.

Up until now, his attraction to men had existed only in theory. He was gay, he knew that much, figured it out in middle school, but his feelings had never been tangible or concrete; they were amorphous, aimed at characters in books, athletes on magazines, and upperclassmen who didn’t know his name. All the people he liked in the past were distant and unattainable, but Osamu was different. He was his friend, and they were classmates. They walked to school together, teased Atsumu together, shared food, split drinks, and changed side by side in the locker room together. Osamu was close, and he was real. Suna could feel his skin through his shirt right now, could hear him laugh and see him smile. He could talk to him whenever he wanted, and he could say whatever came to mind. None of this had been a possibility before.

It should’ve been wonderful, this proximity, this chance to act on his feelings for once, but it was frightening to an almost paralyzing degree.

Distance was a safety net, Suna thought. Untouchable people remained untouchable forever, but with closeness there was an air of caution, questioning, and uncertainty surrounding every move. When the person you wanted was miles away, it was almost impossible to cross a line. When they weren’t, it was too easy to go too far.

He could touch Osamu if he wanted to. He could pull him close, run his fingers through his hair, lean in for a kiss, and go further than friends were supposed to but, at the same time, he couldn’t. Osamu wasn’t his to be close with, even when they were right next to each other. He could tell Osamu how he felt, something he never had the chance to do with previous crushes, but saying anything might ruin what they had now. Their friendship was at stake. He had the opportunity to do so many things he’d never done before, but he didn’t, wouldn’t, could never. The risk was too great. The safety net of distance was gone now that his feelings were both tangible and concrete, clearly defined in terms of grins and grey hair, and that was more distressing than it had any right to be.

When they finally made it to the school, Suna felt sick from overthinking, and he had a headache to boot. He waved off Osamu’s concerns with claims of motion sickness, took an Ibuprofen, and shifted his focus to schoolwork for the rest of the day, unsure what to do now that he’d finally acknowledged his stupid, ill-fated crush.

Before practice, Suna watched as a girl confessed to Osamu outside the gym, reminding him there was another reason to stay quiet about his feelings: Osamu was straight and had a billion better, prettier, more female options that weren’t him.

  
  


Suna was spiraling. He was surprised it took this long, honestly, since breakdowns were an inevitability for him. If acknowledging his crush hadn’t been the cause, it would’ve been something else— a sprained ankle, a failed test, a fight with his mom, literally anything— his brain was always looking for a reason to push him off the ledge, it seemed. Depression was the hill his neurons were willing to die on. Happiness was never permanent. Anxiety gave way to guilt and shame which quickly turned into yet another depressive episode.

His alarm went off, but Suna made no move to get up. He just unplugged it and rolled over, facing the wall, tugging his comforter over his face to block out the sunrise. He didn’t have it in him today. He’d been doing well, managed to go a few months without any major hiccups, but his streak of functionality had come to an end. He couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed.

When the twins came knocking on his door, he covered his ears and tried to tune them out, but they just kept knocking, so he sighed, realizing they wouldn’t leave without a good reason. Suna reached for his phone blindly and dialed Osamu’s number. It rang for a few seconds before he picked up.

“Yo, Sunarin.” Osamu’s voice came through the speaker loud and crackly. Suna cringed and turned the volume down. “Where ya at?”

“Hey,” Suna mumbled. “Sorry, I’m not coming to school today. I’m sick.” He felt bad for lying, but he couldn’t think of another reason to make them go away. “You guys can go ahead and leave.”

It was easy to picture the concerned frown that was undoubtedly making its way onto Osamu’s face, and Suna could practically see the crease between his brows. “Oh,” Osamu said, sounding dejected. “That sucks. Hope ya feel better soon.”

“You and me both,” Suna said. He could hear Atsumu in the background, ranting about how he was missing practice, how it was too close to interhigh to be sick, how he better not let it affect his playing, but he was muffled and distant, easy to tune out. 

“See ya tomorrow then, yeah?” Osamu said, ignoring his brother. “Make sure ya get lots of rest, and take some meds too.”

Suna nodded and immediately felt stupid because Osamu couldn’t see that at all. “Yeah, alright. Sorry.”

“Ya don't gotta apologize for bein’ sick, it ain’t yer fault.” Suna wanted to object, but he stayed silent and ended the call, tossing his phone aside carelessly and going back to bed, only leaving to shower and eat instant noodles a few hours later. He ended up breaking his streak with his French lessons, which didn’t help his mood at all. 

  
  


The next day, Suna woke up feeling worse, as was typical with his bouts of depression. His body felt heavy and his eyes felt hot and he was glad his alarm clock was already unplugged because he wouldn’t have had the energy to turn it off. There was knocking on the door again, and he groaned. He didn’t want to deal with this. He considered not doing anything, but the sound would get annoying fast and he could vividly picture Atsumu breaking in through his window just to drag his ass to the gym.

He reached for his phone and called Osamu again. “Hey,” He said, voice gravelly and quiet, mumbled and tired. “Sorry I-” He broke off into a fake cough. “I’m still sick.” The lie tasted bad on his tongue. “I’ll be better tomorrow, I think.” He wasn’t sure. He certainly hoped. “You and Atsumu can go ahead and leave, I can’t go to school like this.”

Osamu started to reply, but Suna hung up before he could hear any of it. He felt bad afterwards, admittedly, but he wasn’t sure if he could handle that voice right now, so full of genuine worry like it had been yesterday. 

  
  


Suna passed out for god knows how long, and he spent most of the day like that, fading in and out of consciousness, rotting away in his bed. He left once to use the bathroom, but he couldn’t bring himself to shower or eat like he had yesterday. He felt like pure shit. Looked like it too, probably, since he hadn’t brushed his hair or teeth. Everything was numb and bleary. Time was elastic. In his room, seconds stretched on for years, but an hour passed every time he blinked.

He felt himself start to drift off again, but he was pulled back into reality by the sound of his phone ringing, loud and shrill, grating his ears. He picked it up to check the number, and considered ignoring it when he saw who it was. Despite everything, he answered the call. “What’s up?” He said as he brought the phone to his ear, forcing his voice to remain level.

“I’m outside yer door,” Osamu said casually, like his words weren’t an entire seismic shock. Suna barely kept his breath from catching. “Kita-san’s with me.”

“Kita-san?” Suna echoed. The name sounded familiar in a vague sense, he was sure he’d heard it in passing at least once, but it was the use of an honorific that confused him more than anything. He tried to recall another time Osamu used one for somebody other than their teacher. He couldn’t.

  
  


Osamu chuckled on the other end. It echoed in Suna’s ears, soft and sweet, but more overwhelming than it should’ve been. It played on loop in his mind. He felt dizzy. “He’s one of the second years on the team,” Osamu explained.

“Oh,” Suna said, still unsure who they were talking about but not wanting to press the topic. The twins were the only people on the twin he paid attention to. Everyone else scared him. “Why are you here?” He kind of wanted them to leave. He kind of wanted them to stay. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, actually, his mind was a confusing place.

“We came to drop some stuff off,” Osamu said. “I’ve got all yer homework, and Kita-san’s got-” He paused. “He’s got some stuff he wanted to give ya.” _Real specific,_ Suna thought a bit sardonically, but he felt mean afterwards. He bit his lip. “Ya don't gotta let us in, but can ya at least open the door? We were gonna leave it all on yer doorstep, but I feel like the wind would blow all yer papers away.”

Suna thought about saying no, but he was worried the guilt would swallow him whole and eat him alive. As tempting as it was to shut them out, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. They were going out of their way to be kind under the false pretense that he was sick. The least he could do was accept their kindness, even if he was undeserving. “Uh, sure, just give me a second,” He mumbled, hanging up.

It took a great deal of effort and an even greater amount of mental fortitude, but Suna managed to roll out of bed, tug on a shirt, and stumble to the door with trudging, hesitant footsteps. He swung it open with little grace, grateful neither of them commented on his appearance. “Hey,” he mumbled.

“Hey!” Osamu chirped back. Kita, who Suna now recognized as the upperclassman with the weird white hair, the intimidating one he tried to avoid, gave a polite bow as a greeting. “Here ya go,” Osamu said as he held out a stack of papers.

Suna took them, taking great care to not touch Osamu, not wanting their hands to brush against each other. Well, he wanted them to, but he knew he didn’t have the right. “Thanks,” He said.

“Here,” Kita said, handing over a plastic bag with both of his hands. “There’s cold medicine inside and some light snacks that aren’t gonna upset yer stomach. Ya gotta make sure yer eatin’, even when yer sick.” Suna took the bag with his free hand, and the gesture left him reeling. It was so earnest and genuine, making it clear Kita cared about his well being, even though they barely knew each other. He felt unworthy of such a thing. “I also put in a bottle of green tea, and some of my grandma’s umeboshi. Make sure to take care of yerself, Suna-san.” 

Suna felt like crying. If his eyes grew watery, nobody commented.

  
  


He ate the snacks and umeboshi gratefully, drank the whole bottle of green tea, and tucked the cold medicine away in a drawer for when he was actually sick. None of it made him feel better, but he wasn’t about to let it all go to waste; he didn’t deserve any of this, he felt, but it’d be heinous to throw any of it out. Besides, he knew he had to eat eventually, even if he wasn’t hungry. Food is important, after all. Osamu was always telling him that. 

Suna laid back down in bed and shut his eyes, drifting off yet again, wrapped in blankets. For the first time in a while, he fell asleep with a full stomach. 

  
  


The next day, he knew better than to stay home. He wanted to, but he knew people would start worrying if he did, and he was afraid other upperclassmen would show up at his doorstep with bags of unwarranted kindness like Kita had, afraid the coach would lecture him, that his mom might yell at him, that his grades might slip— It wasn’t worth it, to put it simply. When the twins came knocking on his door, he was already wearing his uniform, and he rode to school on Osamu’s bike pegs again, willing his expression to remain neutral.

He went through his classes only half paying attention, mostly spacing out, trying to avoid staring at Osamu. He felt guilty every time his gaze lingered and felt worse when his thoughts wandered. Osamu had no clue what was going on in his head, had never consented to being the victim of his romantic fantasies; he’d surely be disgusted if he knew how often Suna thought about holding his hand, about the way it’d feel when their fingers interlocked, the way he wanted to kiss him and hold him tight and never let go. Suna felt like a creep. He ate his feelings in fried rice at lunch, pointedly ignoring Osamu when he offered to teach him how to cook for the billionth time.

Everything was horrible. He wasn’t locked in his room, but he didn’t feel any better. He felt more functional, if only by a small margin, he was getting more things done today, but he also felt the weight of his body dragging him down, felt sluggish, dumb, worthless, and tired. He was a pretty lazy guy and was notoriously hard to read, so nobody noticed, but he had less energy than normal. He couldn’t even bring himself to read between classes, an activity he usually relished in.

Practice had been tolerable, surprisingly, but that was due to him slacking whenever possible. He never tried too hard in practice, but he tried even less today, making his already average performance worse. Atsumu started chewing him out for it, but he only scoffed in response, rolling his eyes and walking off to the locker room.

Suna rejected Osamu’s offer to walk him home, making up plans to study in the library on the fly. When Osamu asked if they could study together, Suna shot him the most miserable, weary expression he could muster, and walked away wordlessly. Osamu didn’t follow. He wished he did. No, he didn’t, he shouldn’t have. It was wrong to want that, wrong to think those sorts of things, not when Osamu was oblivious to it all.

  
  


As he walked through the library doors, he realized he could’ve gone straight home instead. Osamu had no way of knowing whether or not he stayed behind, and he wouldn’t have checked either, trusting Suna’s word. Still, Suna made no move to leave. He wasn’t going to study, but he wanted to find something to help with his depression. He decided he’d do that on the walk over here. He didn’t want to feel like shit forever and, like with most problems he had, he felt turning to books was the most logical solution.

The library was another reason he applied to Inarizaki. The volleyball team had been a large part of the decision, of course, but their library was nice, too; it boasted an extensive collection of books in a myriad of genres and rarely got crowded. The library was beautiful in Suna’s eyes, the perfect escape: There were tall windows stretching from wall to wall, multiple seating areas, new, fancy computers with clean monitors and keyboards, and an extensive foriegn section with books in most major languages. He frequented the place after practice, usually with the twins. He found the atmosphere far more comfortable than his cold, barren, beat-up house. 

  
  


He wandered around somewhat aimlessly, too ashamed to look in the self help section. He knew it was stupid, but the idea of being seen there filled him with dread, made his skin crawl and his palms sweat. He was afraid of being caught red-handed with a copy of _Against Depression_ by Peter Kramer, afraid somebody would judge him, tell his friends, make fun of him, or, worse, ask if he was okay. Just thinking about it made him nauseous. Like always, he tried to convince himself he didn’t care. Like always, it didn’t work.

 _You’ll never do anything if you keep worrying about what people think_ , his mom told him once while lecturing him about his piss poor mental health, _you shouldn’t care so much, Rintarou, it gets you nowhere._

She was right and he knew it, but she was the one who taught him shame in the first place, so how dare she get mad when he felt it. She had no room to talk, Suna thought; a good amount of his anxiety was learned behavior, picked up from passive aggressive glares and snide comments over the years. His mom was the main reason he worried about what people think, the one who told him he was bothering people around him, that he took up too much space, talked too loudly, and cried too often. She didn’t have the right to scold him for mannerisms that were ultimately her fault.

Suna kept walking until he ended up in front of the small shelves dedicated to foreign poets in the very back of the library. He’d never been one for poetry, had never cared to get into it, but he couldn’t think of a reason to not skim through a page or two. It’d serve as a nice distraction, at the very least. His fingers ghosted over the books as he deftly ignored those in languages he didn’t know— Thai, Mandarin, Spanish, Korean, and Italian to name a few, Inarizaki’s library was truly impressive— and pulled out the first one in English that caught his interest: Richard Siken’s _War of the Foxes,_ which stood out for some inexplicable reason. 

He considered reading work by a French poet, but he didn’t have enough fluency in the language to understand much. He only knew enough phrases to feel cool and look smart. Plus, he’d been slacking in his lessons lately, so he wasn’t sure he’d be able to read anything at all. English was the only language he felt comfortable reading that wasn’t Japanese.

He inspected the cover for a moment. The font choice was a bit dull, a simple sans-serif, but the art was interesting to look at, and Suna couldn’t deny his interest. He flipped open the cover, starting to read.

***

 _“I wanted to explain myself to myself in an understandable way._ _  
_ _I gave shape to my fears and made excuses. I varied my velocities, watched myselves sleep. Something's not right about what I'm doing but I'm still doing it_ — _living in the worst parts, ruining myself. My inner life is a sheet of black glass. If I fell through the floor_ _  
_ _I would keep falling. The enormity of my desire disgusts me.”_ _  
_ _\- Richard Siken, War of the Foxes, 2015_

***

The work enamoured him, and that feeling only grew with each poem. It understood him, he felt, on a level he rarely experienced. The poems seemed to be about him, about his thoughts, his feelings. It was as if Siken was in his brain, transcribing his internal monologue and translating it into beautiful, poetic prose. Each stanza knew him intimately. Every line resonated with his core. 

He always thought poetry was something he wouldn’t like, something meant for people other than him. He was under the impression that it was nothing but Shakespeare quotes and straight people whining about each other’s eyes, so he dismissed it as a whole. Shakespeare was overrated, he thought, and the plights of straight people were artistically worthless. He stood by those claims, but they were also the reason that poetry, in his mind, was something he’d never like or relate to. 

This, however, was beautiful. He felt seen by it, felt known, felt acknowledged in the safest way possible, and felt stupid for ignoring it until now. The poems were cathartic to read. There was no person to open up to, nobody he had to connect with, no pressure to divulge his worst parts, share his secrets, or be vulnerable; there was only a book that already knew every word on the tip of his tongue, and he still felt emotional release. It was like finally scratching an itch he couldn’t reach, like opening an umbrella in the rain, like the one conversation he had with a therapist. It was comfortable, too. He connected with the work in a deeply personal way.

Suna made quick work of _War of the Foxes_. Perhaps he didn’t process it all yet, didn’t appreciate every word or nuanced verse, but that’s what rereads are for, he figured. It had been an enjoyable read, and that was all that mattered. He went back to the foriegn poetry shelf, scanning for other works of Siken’s. 

His eyes lit up when they landed a copy of _Crush._

***

 _“You're trying not to tell him you love him, and you're trying to_ _  
_ _choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you,_ _  
_ _like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body,_ _  
_ _like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.”_ _  
_ _\- Richard Siken, Crush, 2015_

***

If _War of the Foxes_ was about Suna’s disposition, _Crush_ was about his dilemma; it was about having feelings for Osamu and the struggle of loving men in a world where “correct relationship” was written into his nomenclature. The work was more intense, more obsessive, driven by love and lust and disgust and beauty and unyielding want, it was holy, violent at times, confessional, passionate, full of hunger and yearning, satisfying to a painful degree and, in Suna’s opinion, it was better, less tame. The homoeroticism was on the forefront, too, which was rare. Suna was used to finding himself in subtext and implications or finding himself dead. Reading the work of another gay man, one so explicit and open about his attraction, made him feel that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t wrong in his feelings, and maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

  
  


In the end, he never had the guts to walk over and pick up a self help book, but he did check out as many works by LGBT poets as he could, which was just as good, he reasoned. Or, at least, it wouldn’t hurt.

  
  


Suna spent the next week crafting a new routine, one that made it easier to get through the day without exhaustion gnawing at his bones, wearing him down, and tearing him flesh from flesh. His depression showed no signs of improving; if he wanted to survive, he had to adapt and cut corners when possible, had to do what he could to carry on. 

The new routine was almost identical to the last, virtually indistinguishable from it, actually, but it centered less around the twins and more around avoidance. He went through all the same motions he had been, but he made a conscious decision to spend less time with Osamu, less time at practice, less around his mom, and less doing anything that stressed him out. Instead, every ounce of free time was spent in his room, finding himself in the poems of others. 

Every day became a delicate balancing act of being present enough to avoid suspicion but avoidant enough to remain comfortable. He still went to school with the twins, but he let them do all the talking, opting to stay silent. When Osamu offered him food, he rejected it, but they still ate lunch together. At practice, he did everything required but never stayed after, making it a point to do the bare minimum. When he was changing, he refused to speak and left as soon as he was done, not stopping to chat with the rest of the team. At first, he was worried somebody might notice his odd behavior, but nobody cared enough to comment or call him out on it.

Or, that’s what he thought, anyway.

  
  


Their coach was the first person to pull him aside. After three days of slacking off during practice, he called Suna over while everyone else did spiking drills. His body language made his disappointment clear. “What’s up with you lately?” He asked, not quite accusatory but unhappy nonetheless. “You’ve been putting in even less effort than normal. Did something happen? Are you injured?”

Suna gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not feeling it, I guess,” He mumbled, avoiding eye contact and keeping things vague. 

“Not feeling it?” He repeated. It looked like he was barely holding back anger or, rather, that his anger was overshadowed by a greater amount of concern and something grossly similar to pity. He sighed. “If you’re not feeling it, why are you showing up?”

“It’s not that-” Suna started to say, but bit his lip, falling silent. He looked down at his hands and started picking at his fingers. “I like volleyball and all, it’s just- I-” He stumbled over his words, struggling to verbalize his thoughts; it was hard to describe depression, almost impossible to accurately portray the depths of the misery it caused. 

Saying he was sad, tired, or any synonym of the two would be an understatement. Most symptoms were less severe on paper than they felt in day to day life. Exhaustion seemed tame compared to the concrete he was submerged in. A lack of motivation sounded so trivial compared to being physically unable to do the things he wanted. Words could only describe feelings to a certain extent. At some point, they stopped being useful, and only served to muddle things up or downplay the gravity of it all. He wanted to explain himself in an understandable way, really, he did, but he couldn’t, was never able to, the message never got across to people who didn’t already know.

“I’m not good at it, I guess,” Suna said finally, which was a flat out lie. He was a decent player when he actually tried, but making excuses had always been easier than making explanations. 

The coach frowned. “Suna,” He said slowly, the look in his eyes unreadable. “You can’t actually think that, right? You’re one of the best first years in the club.” He smiled sadly. “You’re a talented middle blocker.”

“I’m not as good as the twins, though,” Suna argued. It was true. He might’ve been good, but was there a point when they were so much better? Shined so much brighter than him? Did more than he ever could? He liked them both, thought of them as friends, but they were monsters where he was mortal. He played volleyball. They turned sport into art. They were on a different level than him, and he didn’t see a point in rising above his station if it meant making a mockery of their talent in a sick attempt to match it. 

“Does that matter? Your core strength is incredible and you’re great at read blocking. If you took the time to actually practice, you could be an amazing player. That’s enough, isn’t it? You don't need to be the twins,” The coach said. “Look, I was planning on giving you a spot on the bench, but I can only do that if you prove you actually want it.”

Suna froze. Anybody willing to show up and listen to their coach could join the volleyball club, but very few players were given jerseys and even less got to sit on the bench. Inarizaki was a powerhouse school, there were lots of players and very little spots. Teams could only be so big. Seniority seemed to be important, too. To be chosen as a first year would be an honor. “I want that,” He said. “I’d like that.”

“Then show me you do,” He said, gesturing to the court. “Or, go home if you don't plan on putting in the effort. This club isn’t for people that don't try.”

There were a lot of things Suna wanted to say, arguments he wanted to make, ways he wanted to defend the lack of effort he’d been putting in, ways he wanted to prove he was trying as hard as he fucking could in spite of it all, but he said nothing. He just nodded and walked back to the court, joining in on spiking drills.

  
  


It was Osamu next, after practice ended.

He and Suna were changing in the locker room together, side by side as always. The upperclassmen had left, and Atsumu was staying behind in the gym to work on his serves, so it was just the two of them. Suna was still pointedly ignoring Osamu. He stayed completely silent as he zipped up his jacket, grabbed his bag, and went to leave, walking towards the door.

Osamu turned to him, pulling on his own jacket. “Yer avoidin’ me,” He said. It wasn’t a question.

Suna stopped in his tracks. “No, I’m not,” He denied, back turned to Osamu. “I’m right here, aren’t I? If I were avoiding you, I wouldn’t b-”

“How dumb do ya think I am?” Osamu fumed, cutting him off. “Did ya really think I wouldn’t notice? Huh? Ya quit talkin’ to me, Suna, ya barely acknowledge my existence, and now ya won’t even look at me.” Suna’s shoulders hunched but he didn’t turn around. “Yer avoidin’ me, and we both know it. Don’t tell me yer not. Where do ya get off lyin’ like that?”

“Okay, fine, you’re right,” Suna conceded with a sigh. “I’ve been avoiding you.” He hoped Osamu would back off if he fessed up to it.

Osamu did not. “What did I do wrong?” He asked instead as he took a step closer to Suna, whose feet were planted firmly on the ground.

Suna blinked. “Huh?”

“What the hell did I do?” Osamu asked again, taking another step forward. “Why d’ya hate me now?”

“I don’t hate you,” Suna said slowly, carefully.

Osamu scoffed. “It sure feels like it.”

“I like spending time with you,” Suna tried to assure.

“Then why did ya stop?”

 _Because I like you,_ Suna wanted to say, _I like you more than I should in ways I shouldn’t, ways you never asked me to, would never want me to._ He bit his tongue. His shoulders trembled as he tried to choke down the feeling, tried to keep it all at bay, tried to keep it from spilling over. He didn’t want Osamu to know the real reason. If he knew, he’d hate him. Panic flared up in his chest and a cold sweat began drenching his body. He ran towards the door without a second thought, sprinting out of the locker room at full speed, moving solely on instinct.

He made it four feet before Osamu was chasing after him, reaching out and grabbing his wrist hard enough to hurt, a prayer for which no words exist. Suna whipped his head around and stared at him with wide eyes.

“Oh no ya don’t!” Osamu shouted before he could say anything, pulling him in back into the locker room. “Yer not leavin’ till ya tell me what the fuck I did!” He seemed to snap out of his anger after that, letting suna go and backing up. He was still seething, teeth gritted, but he looked defeated as well, uncertainty painting his features. He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, yer allowed to quit talkin’ to me if ya want. Ya don’t have to be my friend, I ain’t gonna force ya to. But-” His voice broke. “Can ya at least tell me why?” He sounded desperate, almost, and Suna couldn’t comprehend why. _“Please.”_

Suna couldn’t think of anything to say; no excuse would make sense but the truth was inexcusable. He couldn’t deny Osamu an answer, though, not like this. “I don’t know,” He said finally, the only answer he could give. 

“You don’t know?” Osamu questioned.

Suna gave a stiff nod, looking down at his feet. He took a deep breath and held it in.

“Alright, well-” Osamu appeared to be at a loss for words. He picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulders, and turned to leave. “Tell me when ya figure it out, I guess.”

  
  


Then, the next morning, it was his teacher before class started.

“Suna-kun,” She said tentatively, placing a hand on his desk to get his attention. His head snapped up from the book he’d been reading. “Can I talk with you for a moment?” She asked. Her tone was cautious and careful, a practiced politeness most teachers seemed to have.

Suna nodded. “Yeah, sure,” He murmured, closing his book and placing it on his desk. She motioned for him to follow her into the hallway, and he did, standing up and pushing his chair in first.

Once they were out of the classroom and away from everyone else, she cleared her throat. “It’s nothing serious,” She assured, a statement that could only precede bad news. Suna braced himself for the worst. “But, you failed your last-”

“Don’t tell my mom!” Suna said quickly, not letting her finish. His voice wavered and cracked as he spoke, desperate and rushed, borderline pleading. Just hearing the word ‘fail’ set off his fight or flight. Memories of being yelled at for grades flashed before his eyes unwillingly, overwhelming him with a spike of panic and nausea. The last thing he needed right now was another fight with his mom.

His teacher frowned. “Why would I tell her?” She asked, concerned. “You only failed one test, it’s not the end of the world. I was only going to ask if you needed help with the material.”

“I-” Suna’s eyes started to water. He was shaking, he realized, struggling to maintain composure. It was stupid that this of all things made him break. This conversation, so calm and innocuous, so otherwise forgettable; it should’ve been bigger and more monumental. That’d make it feel justified, at least. He could normally handle this. He should’ve been able to handle this. But, he couldn’t, not when he’d been in the middle of one long, drawn out break down for over a week now, getting worse and worse each day like a car crash in slow motion. One bad grade proved to be the tipping point. That was all it took to make everything too much, more unbearable than it’d already been.

“I’m sorry,” He said weakly. “I don’t know.”

“Are you okay?”

There it was, the question Suna hated more than anything else. He tried his best to hold back tears, but earnest concern broke through the dam like a sledgehammer to glass, and the flood gates flew open. The tears in his eyes finally spilled, streaming down his face and wetting his shirt. He felt like an idiot for not holding it together. Why couldn’t he calm down? He kept it together in front of his coach and Osamu, why not now? He wanted to bash his head into a goddamn wall for being dumb enough to cry in front of another person. Shame coursed through his veins, and the tidal wave of a panic attack crashed over him. His face felt hot.

He couldn’t take it anymore. 

Before his teacher could say anything, he bolted off to the bathroom and locked himself in a stall, clamping his hands over his mouth while he broke into sobs. 

  
  


The incident went almost entirely unacknowledged which was a relief, to say the least. The only proof it happened was a study packet placed on his desk the next day. Outside of that, nobody noticed, and nobody saw. If they did, they didn’t say anything. Suna was more than thankful for the opportunity to move on. A phone call home or a talk with the counselor would’ve made his life worse, he thought, and rumors spreading would’ve been the end of him. He was given the chance for things to go back to normal.

Except they couldn’t, right? He couldn’t let them. The new routine wasn’t working— a shame, really— but the old one hadn’t worked either. Nothing would work, it seemed. Not now, not ever. Misery was inevitable and happiness impossible. The universe was cruel, in Suna’s mind; it had a bone to pick with him, and it wanted to see him suffer. He wondered if he did something in a past life to deserve the present one. Something awful, surely, otherwise good things wouldn’t slip from his grasp so easily. 

Hanging out with the twins was the closest he ever came to happiness. Atsumu and Osamu were his first real friends, and they were some of the few people who did more than tolerate him; they liked his company, and he liked theirs. He felt at ease around them. There was constant chatter, idiotic jokes, food when he was hunngry, and smiles when he felt sad. All of these had been absent from his life until he met them. His childhood was painful to think about, and middle school had been worse. Memories with the twins were his best by default. Suna cherished them.

What a pity everything was ruined now thanks to his stupid, stupid heart. 

For the billionth time in his life, he wished he was straight.

Suna watched enough movies and read enough books to know what happened to people like him: His life was doomed to end tragically or be written off as a punchline. He’d be single forever, die alone, and any attempts at romance would make people around him uncomfortable. He should’ve taken it all as a warning sign when he was younger. He should’ve had the good sense to be straight after seeing all the gay men in pages and on screens end up in graves. He didn’t learn his lesson as a kid, so now he was learning it with Osamu. 

Gay people didn’t get to be happy. 

Even the poets seemed to be miserable.

His mood grew worse. He skipped school more frequently, unable to leave his bed. _Bad days,_ he told the team, _I just have bad days sometimes, it’s nothing big._ He didn’t elaborate; nobody asked, and he didn’t have it in him anyway. Nothing helped. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he knew he didn’t want to go on like this. 

Still too ashamed to pick up a self help book, Suna did the next best thing and picked up a pen. Perhaps Poetry helped Siken. Perhaps it’d help him too. He felt compelled to write, something he never felt before, and it was the only idea of his worth acting on, so he hoped it’d do something, anything.

  
  


Which is why Suna found himself sitting at his desk a few hours later, staring at an empty notebook, trying to turn suffering into art. Countless lines littered the page, but he’d scribbled each of them out, unsatisfied with their flow. Writing poetry was harder than he expected. He wanted to write a rondel and, on paper, it seemed simple enough: Thirteen lines, three stanzas, two rhymes. It was French, too, which made him feel cool, made it easy to pretend he wasn’t a week behind on his lessons.

He thought it’d be easy, figured he’d get it done fast and move onto the next poem in no time. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Poetry was mortifying to write, he found, to a borderline painful degree. It took a lot more vulnerability than he anticipated. There were no layers between himself and his feelings; only words and ink. Plus, he was bad at it, which made it all the more embarrassing. Rhyming was hard and prose was confusing. He was laying all he felt bare, and he didn’t even have the decency to be good at it. He wanted to give up, crumple the page, toss it away, forget about it forever, and never touch a pen again. But, if he did, he’d be giving up a bit too early, and he’d have to either do his homework or lay in bed until he passed out, neither of which sounded particularly appealing. 

So, he kept trying, as much as it hurt. He wrote draft after draft of the rondel, pulled up a rhyming dictionary to simplify the process, swapped out words and tried new orders, read articles to get a better idea of what the fuck he was doing, and kept at it until he got something decent. It still wasn’t great, he thought, but it was a poem and he made it and it felt nice to get out of his system. It was emotional release. The feelings were on paper and not in his head, if only for a moment. Poetry wasn’t just calming to read, it was calming to write too— when it was finished, at least. Mortification became relief once the poem was written.

_Through wooded earth in a frantic foxtrot_ _  
_ _Belonging found outside the home_ _  
_ _You are welcomed, encouraged to roam_ _  
_ _The earth rejoices; your mother does not_

 _Birds sing greetings from their treetop spot_ _  
_ _Smiling, waltzing, the forest uncombed_ _  
_ _Through wooded earth in a frantic foxtrot_ _  
_ _Belonging found outside the home_

 _The people who knew you already forgot_ _  
_ _Nature is nothing like cruelty you’ve known_ _  
_ _There’s sweetened solace in plants overgrown_ _  
_ _Trees are accepting where others were fraught_ _  
_ _Through wooded earth in a frantic foxtrot_

Suna closed the notebook, proud of himself. He felt a bit better. Not okay, nowhere close to it, but better and less like falling apart at the seams. Was this coping? It certainly felt like it, felt nice and relatively alleviating, like a blanket on a cold night or a bandaid on a fresh cut. Maybe poets seemed miserable because they wrote the misery out of them, contained it in pages so it wouldn’t follow them around. It was an outlet, he realized, one he desperately needed.

He wrote ‘Poetry’ on the cover on his notebook in careful, neat letters, and tucked it away in his backpack, making it a goal to write at least one poem a day from now on. If it helped him tonight, it’d help him tomorrow too, right? 

  
  


Life became easier to bear when armed with a poetry notebook. Slowly, things returned to the way they’d been before. Suna broke down less and less, and finally put effort into life again. He was still sad, sure, and his depression hadn’t gone away, but there was a new step in his routine that made it all more tolerable: writing. 

Feelings piled up throughout the day, and he let them out at night, dumping his frustration and infatuation onto unsuspecting pages. His poetry was, admittedly, still amateur, and anyone worth their salt could point out the glaring flaws, but he didn’t care. It helped and that was enough. Besides, at some point, he gave up on making anything good. To hell with quality, he decided, giving up on rhyming, flow, and prose entirely; He vomited thoughts onto lines in rambling blank verse iambic pentameter, sometimes even less structure than that. It wasn’t for anyone but him. It didn’t need to be good, he realized, he wasn’t publishing it or sharing it. He’d rather die than have anyone else read it, actually. 

His coach seemed proud when he started trying harder at practice. His teacher looked happy to see his grades improve. The twin’s faces lit up when he joined in on their stupid conversation one morning. His mom never noticed his suffering in the first place, so she didn’t react, but he didn’t really want her to, so he didn’t mind. 

Things were looking up. Or, rather, he was looking up despite it all, keeping his head held high and his thoughts filled with sloppy stanzas as he forged a path through each day, determined to keep going no matter how hard it got. He had an outlet now. He’d be fine, in the end.

  
  


“What’ve ya been readin’ lately?” Osamu asked during lunch, tone bordering on cautious. He and Suna started talking again, but the boundaries weren’t clearly defined; they tread carefully now, fearing another upset. Conversations kept to safe topics. Volleyball, mostly, but school too, and other things from time to time. Books, apparently. 

“A lot of poetry,” Suna answered, taking a bite of his lunch. He could’ve sworn Osamu didn’t care enough about reading to ask.

Osamu tilted his head to the side. “Oh, yer changin’ stuff up then? Tired of Russian books?”

“Not tired of them, no, just branching out,” Suna said, surprised Osamu remembered his favorite books but hiding it well. “I’ve been reading Richard Siken, mostly.”

“Who’s that?”

“An American poet,” Suna explained, not offering information outside of that. “I’d show you his poems, but you suck at reading English and none of them have been translated into Japanese.” He poked at his food. The idea of Osamu reading Siken scared him, so he was thankful for the translation gap. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Can’t ya translate em’ for me?” Osamu asked with a frown. 

Suna’s face grew hot. Translating gay poetry so Osamu could read it— that was something lovers did, right? Something you did for your boyfriend, something tender and sweet and intimate. He couldn’t do that, not when they were friends, not when Osamu was straight. It’d be crossing a line, definitely.

“I can’t. Poetry is almost impossible to translate,” He mumbled. “Maybe if you paid attention in class, you’d be able to read them yourself.” He stuck his tongue out, the comment teasing and snide in an attempt to distract from how flustered he felt. Atsumu had the better English grades between the twins, surprisingly, so he wasn’t worried at all. 

“Hey!”

“I’m just saying,” Suna shrugged, snickering.

“It’s not my fault the language is hard,” Osamu huffed. “D’ya read any Japanese poetry? Stuff I can actually understand?”

“I like Takahashi Mutsuo’s work,” Suna said without thinking. He paused, biting his lip and backpedaling quickly, blushing. “You probably wouldn’t, though, so don’t bother looking into him.” It came out a bit harsher than he meant it to.

“What d’ya mean?” Osamu seemed insulted. “If ya like the guy, I oughta check him out. I know I ain’t the smartest guy in the world, but I can read a poem or two, y’know. It wouldn’t kill me.” He pulled a face. “Are ya sayin’ I‘m too dumb to read his stuff?”

“No, not at all,” Suna insisted. “It’s just-” Takahashi’s work was some of the most homoetoric writing Suna had ever read. It was explicit and downright erotic at times, with next to no subtly, and it was full of love and divinity, not nearly as depressing as Siken, more like worship to men and an ode to his love. It was beautiful, too, but that wasn’t what worried him. 

Osamu couldn’t read it, not if he knew Suna liked it. That’d be like outing himself, almost, since there was no heterosexual way to interpret the poems. “I don’t think you’d like him.” He gave another, stiffer shrug and looked away, face bright red. “And, like, you shouldn’t waste your time, not when interhigh is so close. You should focus on training and studying instead.”

Osamu’s expression was unreadable. “I could tell ya the same thing.”

_“Touché.”_

***

 _"I am a boy, who not knowing love,_ _  
_ _Suddenly has fallen from the summit of a frightening infancy_ _  
_ _Into the darkness of a well_ _  
_ _Dark, watery hands choke my delicate neck_ _  
_ _Innumerable needles of coldness push into me_ _  
_ _Killing my heart, wet as a fish_ _  
_ _Within each internal organ, I swell like a flower_ _  
_ _As I move horizontally along the surface_ _  
_ _Of the subterranean water."_ _  
_ _\- Takahashi Mutsuo, The Dead Boy, 1964_

***

“How are yer French lessons goin’?” Osamu asked through a mouthful of food the next day, continuing his trend of bringing up things Suna mentioned in passing, things Suna expected him to forget, to never care about in the first place.

“I gave up for a bit,” Suna admitted. “I started doing them again recently, though, so I guess they’re going alright. Why?”

Osamu shrugged. “I dunno, I just haven’t heard ya speak French since, like-” He stopped to stare at the ceiling and crunch numbers in his head. “The first day of school, actually. Longer than I thought.”

Suna blinked. That was longer than he thought, too. “Well, yeah, of course you haven’t,” He huffed. “Why would I talk to you in French? You don’t know it.” He shot Osamu a weird look. “There’s no point, you wouldn’t understand me.” 

“But dontcha gotta practice sayin’ words out loud?” Osamu countered. “That’s what ‘Tsumu and I do with English.”

“It wouldn’t be good practice,” Suna argued. Neither was sitting alone in his room and mumbling to himself, honestly, but he was still embarrassed by his pronunciation, so he didn’t want his French leaving the privacy of his bedroom. “You’re supposed to practice with people who already know the language or are at least learning it.”

“So?”

“Why do you wanna hear my shitty French so bad?” Suna asked, exasperated. 

“Because it sounds cool, duh,” Osamu said, like it was obvious, like that answer made any fucking sense. 

“You’re an idiot, you know that, right?” Suna muttered, ears pink. Something about Osamu’s earnesty made his heart skip a beat, and he was self-conscious, too, which wasn’t helping his blush at all. 

“I ain’t hearin’ a no,” Osamu laughed. “I ain’t hearin’ any French either.” Suna scowled. “Are ya gonna say somethin’ or not? Lunch is almost over.”

Suna took a deep breath, looking down at his desk. _“Le chat est flou, la nourriture a bon goût, il fait beau,”_ He said quickly, listing off example sentences he remembered from the website. _“Je te déteste.”_ He turned to Osamu. “Are you happy?”

Osamu grinned. “Yep!” He chirped. “Ya oughta speak French more.”

“Why?”

“I already told you,” Osamu said, shrugging, “It sounds cool. I like hearin’ it.”

Suna’s blush worsened. “Why not learn it yourself then?”

Osamu just laughed.

  
  


Normalcy returned. Practice continued, classes went on, and Suna made his way through French lessons quicker than ever now that he had Osamu to listen and tell him how cool he sounded. Even when Suna doubted himself and questioned whether or not he could do it, struggled over a syllable, or mixed up which letters were silent and which were spoken, Osamu cheered him on, and made things easier. He made it harder to get caught up in his head— Well, made it harder in some ways, easier in others. 

Things were as fine as they could be, and it was nice, but guilt still gnawed at him everytime he got too close to Osamu, caught himself staring, or started daydreaming. Outlets could only get him so far. He felt bad, really, he still didn’t feel like he was allowed to be thinking these thoughts about his friend, and the poetry helped but then made it worse, because then he was _writing_ about his friend, and wasn’t that worse? Wasn’t that creepier?

In his head, he knew he could keep his sexuality to himself, knew he could be attracted to men quietly, that he didn’t have to tell anyone, but doing so felt shameful. Osamu had a right to know, he thought. He deserved the opportunity to set boundaries and keep Suna as far away as he wanted, to cut him off entirely if he saw it fit. Also, hiding his sexuality was getting tiring; confessions from girls and teasing from teammates were annoying. His feelings about being gay were complicated, and he certainly wasn’t proud of loving men, but he hated being seen as straight, too.

  
  


So, Suna set his mind to coming out, and worked up the nerve before practice. He called the team over in the locker room with promises of an important announcement. _You can do this,_ he assured himself, _it’s only a few words, you can say them._

“I’ve been meaning to say this for awhile now,” Suna started, but he froze up, nausea creeping over him. He gagged on his words, suddenly sick to his stomach. His sexuality was something he never said out loud, something he never told anyone. What if they didn’t accept him? What if they hated him? What if they kicked him off the team? 

Before he could send himself into a panic attack, he took a deep breath and continued. “I’m gay,” He said, avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room and picking at the skin on his fingers almost violently, unsure what else to do with his nervous energy. “Before you ask, no, I’m not joking, I like men.” He shrugged. “I thought you guys deserved to know since we’re all-” He gestured vaguely to the locker room. “Yeah.”

The whole team stayed silent as Suna’s statement sunk in. Their reactions were varied, but nobody seemed outright disgusted, which was good. Most members were only slightly nonplussed, Osamu’s eyebrows were raised, Atsumu’s expression was indecipherable, and Aran, a second year, had an aura of smugness that made it seem like he knew the whole time.

Nobody said anything for a few minutes, and Suna shifted around uncomfortably.

Then, Kita stepped forward, a gentle, barely there smile on his face. “That’s fine, Suna-san, it doesn’t change anything,” He assured. “We accept ya jus’ the way ya are, and we’re happy to have ya on the team. Thanks for trustin’ us enough to share.” He placed an encouraging hand on Suna’s shoulder, and there were a few nods of agreement.

“Yep! Exactly what Kita said,” Their captain chirped, walking up and clapping him on the back. “Love who ya love as long as yer not too gay to practice.” He grinned, laughing lightly, and the team laughed with him, at ease. They all went back to changing and started filing out of the locker room and into the gym for practice. 

The whole thing was anticlimactic, really, but it felt nice to get it off his chest, and it was comforting to know that nothing changed.

  
  


After practice, Suna took his time changing and left the locker room. He walked up to Osamu, who smiled as he approached. Osamu waited for him by the door most days, leaning against the wall, bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Where’s Atsumu?” Suna asked, looking around for the bleach blond nuisance. 

“He’s stayin’ behind,” Osamu explained. “Interhigh’s next week, so he’s fussin’ over his serves again. I keep tellin’ him they won’t improve overnight, that he’s gotta take a break, but he never listens.” He sounded tired.

“His ears are just for show,” Suna mused. “They don’t actually work.” They both laughed at that, and Osamu started making his way towards the bike rack with Suna in tow.

“There’s a new boba place a few blocks away,” Osamu said, switching topics as he climbed onto his bike, a foot placed on the concrete to stay upright. Why neither of the twins had kickstands, Suna wasn’t sure, but he never bothered asking. “Wanna check it out?”

“I don’t have any cash,” Suna said. He stepped the bike pegs, like usual, but hesitated when he went to grab Osamu’s shoulders, hands hovering just above them. “Is this alright?” He asked tentatively. 

Osamu glanced over his shoulder and shot him a look, raising a brow in confusion. “Is what alright?”

“This,” Suna said, carefully placing a hand on his shoulder, unsure. “I mean, I’m like…” He trailed off, averting his gaze. Part of coming out was to get it off his chest, but it was also a warning, a chance for Osamu to keep his distance if he so desired.

“Yer like…?” It took a moment for things to click in Osamu’s mind, and he laughed when they did. “Right, yer gay,” He said with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t care, dude. You’ll fall off if ya don’t hold on.”

“I was just making sure,” Suna huffed, putting his other hand on Osamu’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It didn’t bother me before, I don’t see why it would now,” Osamu reasoned, shrugging. “D’ya wanna check out that boba place or not?”

Suna smiled, glad their friendship remained the same. “I don’t have any cash.”

Osamu started pedalling out of the school gates. “That’s not an answer,” He said. “I’ll pay. Wanna go?”

“Sure.”

  
  


The acceptance from his team left Suna feeling confident, for once, and he felt secure when nobody changed the way they treated him; Osamu was still his friend, nobody asked to switch lockers to get away from him, and, all in all, nobody hated him for it, like he feared; word of it spread quickly, since rumor mills were always running in high schools, but outside of a few passive aggressive jabs from classmates he barely knew, things were fine.

Being able to exist as himself openly was freeing. When he was asked to get cleaning supplies from the closet, Suna made a joke about not wanting to go back in there, and everyone laughed. His teammates still teased him and asked if he had any crushes, but this time they asked if he liked any _guys_ in their grade, asked what his taste in _men_ was. 

_Maybe gay people can be happy,_ he thought, _maybe I’ll be happy one day._

The freedom at school made it easier to breathe, lessened the weight on his shoulder. He wanted it to extend to his house.

  
  


Suna woke up early the next day. The sun wasn’t even up yet, and he was miserably tired, but he wanted to talk to his mom. Yawning, he walked out into the living room, still dressed in pajamas. He cleared his throat to get her attention. “Mom,” He said when she turned to face him. “I have something I want to tell you.” He wasn’t nearly as nervous this time; if his mom hated him, she wouldn’t kick him out. She cared too much about appearances for that, cared too much about seeming better than his father.

“What is it, Rintarou? Can’t you tell me later?” His mom snapped, impatient. She was dressed in her work clothes, one foot out the door when Suna caught her, and something between rage and deep sorrow grew in his gut at her tone. Couldn’t she spare her son a few seconds? Was he that unworthy of her presence? Her time that precious? This was something important, something she ought to know about him, something he wanted her to know, and he wasn’t sure when he’d have another chance to tell her; she was spending more and more nights in Kobe lately, taking more and more hours at the office. Suna basically lived alone now. This was the first time he’d seen her in weeks. So, yes, it had to be now.

“I’m gay,” Suna blurted, wettness pricking at his eyes. “That’s it, that’s all I wanted to tell you.” His hands balled into fists. “You can go now. I just thought you’d want to know something about me.” 

Going into this conversation, he hadn’t planned on getting mad, but anger boiled inside him now, desperation clawed at him, his shoulders started to shake. He wanted a reaction; Approval or rejection, he didn’t care, but he wanted his mom to look at him, goddammit, wanted her to do something other than ignore his presence and act like nothing was wrong with that.

“That’s it?” She asked. “You wasted my time to tell me that?”

Suna wanted to scream. “It’s important to me,” He said instead, willing his tone to remain even, his voice level. He was seething, but he didn’t want a fight. 

His mom blinked. “Alright,” She said, turning to leave.

“You’re not mad? You’re not-” Suna was tripping over his words, not wanting this to be one of the many things he said she wrote off and ignored. “Do you approve? Do you hate it? Can’t you say something?”

“What is there to say?” His mom shot back. “It’s not my business who you date, do what you want, you’re in high school now.”

“Well, I just figured-”

She groaned, exasperated. “Look, I have to get going, I don’t have time to argue about this, do whatever makes you happy,” She said, taking another step out the door. “If you want my permission to date guys, you have it. Is that what you were looking for?”

Suna opened his mouth to tell her that no, it wasn’t, he was looking for acceptance, looking for a rise, looking for attention, acknowledgement, anything, something, he wanted her to know a thing or two about him, wanted her to look at him and saw who he was, who he liked, how he wasn’t what she thought before, wanted her to—

But, she was already leaving, so he shut his mouth and kicked the wall as hard as he could. 

  
  


Before he could get too miserable over it, the twins were there to pick him up, and they lifted his spirits the second he opened the door; Atsumu’s hair wasn’t styled today, and he wouldn’t stop whining about it. He overslept, apparently, didn’t have time to fix it like he normally would, and Suna couldn’t help laughing at him and his stupid appearance. Osamu joined in. Atsumu pouted. 

_Bullies,_ he said, _yer both bullies, my hair doesn’t look like straw, I hate you._

They were at the school in no time, and classes passed by fast. Suna threw himself into practice for once, trying harder than he usually did, taking his frustration out on innocent volleyballs in the form of spikes, serves, and blocks. He was a machine today. 

His coach congratulated him for putting in extra effort. Suna smiled, thanked him, and didn’t let onto why. He was awarded a spot on the bench at Interhigh. Osamu bought him boba tea again, Matcha, as congratulations, and he bought Atsumu some too, as consolation for his straw hair. Atsumu threatened to spill it on his head, but drank it anyway.

  
  


The next weekend, the whole team was crammed into a bus for interhigh. Suna watched the games from the bench with a smile. He was subbed in a grand total of once, but that was enough for him; the blocks he got that game were killer, and shifted the momentum in their favor. They won, and he felt proud. They lost the next game, which was a shame, but Suna was happy to be there.

He was elated to be playing with Inzarizaki, to be part of such a strong team, but that excitement was nothing compared to the warm content he felt when Osamu fell asleep on his shoulder during the bus ride back, his grey hair mused in a way that was more endearing than it had any right to be. Suna wanted so badly to kiss his forehead. 

He fell a bit harder that day, fell and kept clinging on for more.

  
  


Despite the loss, a dinner at Kita’s house was planned to celebrate their effort and their wins, team bonding, or something like that; Suna didn’t plan on going. He tried to avoid people’s houses, not wanting to intrude or deal with family meetings. They were usually awkward and tense. Adults tended to look at him with disapproval. Or, that’s what he was used to, anyway.

Unfortunately, he was roped into attending by Osamu. Suna was a weak man. He had trouble saying no to pouty lips and puppy eyes from his favorite person. _Don’t make me deal with ‘Tsumu alone,_ he said, _suffer with me._ And, really, who was Suna to say no? Osamu could ask him to burn the school to the ground at this point, and he’d go shopping for matches the very next day. He was whipped, to put it simply.

  
  


Dinner went fine. Suna expected it to be a disaster, honestly, but the food was good and the twins were on their best behavior. Kita was intimidating, he supposed, so it made sense that they’d be polite and act as human as they could manage. Still, Aran asked him to sit between the twins while everyone ate, just in case; they were less likely to fight if the third Miya was separating them, apparently. Suna didn’t know how to feel about being called a third Miya. He sat sandwiched in the middle of them anyway.

It was actually pretty nice. Everybody was smiling and laughing, the room felt warm, and Kita’s grandmother was doting and sweet, making sure everybody got enough to eat and then some. Suna didn’t talk much, but he didn’t need to. Just being around so many happy people made him feel at ease. Being with them, a part of them, was enough. It was like family. This was what family was like, what it was supposed to be. Happy faces, safety, idle chatter, tasty food, friendliness, and cheer.

Suna wanted more of this. He was glad he came.

  
  


The twins walked him home afterwards and, when he shut and locked his front door behind himself, he pressed his back to the aged wood and stared ahead and the empty living room, struck by how cold it felt, by how lonely he was. The feeling crashed over him suddenly, and he slid to the floor, tears bubbling in his eyes. He felt jealous, more than anything, saddened too.

Kita got to live in that warm, happy place? Got to be there every day? He had a kind grandmother who cooked for him and pinched his cheeks and asked how his games went? Not just Kita, but the twins too, they talked about their parents taking them out to dinner the night before, talked about their dad taking photos before the game and apologizing about how he couldn't come. Most of the team, actually. Their parents were actually involved in their lives. Their homes were probably happy and warm too, Suna realized, but he didn’t get any of that. He wasn’t even sure if his mom knew he still played volleyball.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, interrupting the beginnings of a breakdown. He answered the call and pressed it to his ear.

“Rintarou!” His mom chirped from the other end, voice sickly sweet and fake, _écoeurant._ “I’m so sorry, but I’ll be staying overnight in Kobe again.” She didn’t sound sorry at all. “There’s leftovers in the fridge if you wanna heat those up for dinner?”

Suna felt like he was suffocating. “I ate at a friend’s, actually,” He said, barely able to get the words out.

“That’s great,” His mom hummed. “Well, heat them up if you get hungry, okay? You can pack them as a lunch tomorrow.”

“Mom-”

“I gotta go, love you, bye!” She hung up before Suna could say anything, which was great, because he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

He curled up into a ball, pressed his face into his knees, and sobbed, ugly and gross.

  
  


Fall turned to winter, and winter to spring. Time passed, nothing changed. Bad days still happened, but there was nothing to complain about, even when it got monotonous. Grades were fine, his mom was gone, practice was good, his house was cold— whatever, same as ever. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Suna went with the flow of it all, rolling with punches and laughing with jokes.

At spring interhigh, the coach subbed him in more often. He wasn’t a starting player, not yet, but he was well on his way, he told him. Their team made it as far as the semi-finals. They lost the game, sadly, but they stole the second set and Suna scored the winning point during it, a thrill unparalleled. Looking down at the poor libero who failed to dig his block, grinning at him, smirking as if to say I’m better than you, was a feeling nothing could rival; Osamu hugging him after, too, couldn’t be rivaled.

Suna only played volleyball because it was fun. He only put in the effort he had to, only just enough to enjoy the sport, but he couldn’t deny being hooked on it now. Poetry, volleyball, stupid old books: These were what made him.

  
  


Osamu sat next to him on the bus ride home again, but he didn’t fall asleep this time, just stared out the window, watching Hyogo blur by. “How’re ya likin’ the countryside?” He asked after a bit. “You’ve been here for almost a year now. Is it better than Tokyo?”

“I kinda hated it at first,” Suna confessed, “But, y’know, what makes places tolerable is, well-” He paused for a moment to choose his words, then continued, a lilt in his voice as he spoke. _“Ce sont les jolis hommes,_ right?” He smirked. “More than that, of course, but mostly that.”

“What the fuck did ya say?” Osamu turned to face him, squinting. “Translate for me.”

Suna chuckled and waved a hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it matters,” Osamu huffed. “Tell me what ya said, Sunarin. C’mon, please?”

“Fine,” Suna said, humming playfully. “I just said I have a reason to like it now, that’s all.” He shrugged.

“And that reason is?”

_“C’est toi.”_

“Again with the French!” Osamu groaned, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know what yer sayin’! I like it and all, don’t get me wrong, it sounds cool, but I wanna know what yer answer was. Can’t ya translate it?”

Suna laughed and shook his head, which only made Osamu’s pissed off expression worse. “I brought my earbuds if you wanna listen to music,” He said, changing the topic and pulling them out of his pocket. He held his phone in the air. “I have a playlist I think you’d like.”

Osamu leaned against the window, not quite sulking but not happy either. “Is it French music?” He asked.

“No,” Suna snorted. “It’s mostly Shinsei Kamattechan. Here.” He held an earbud out for Osamu to take.

When Osamu took it, their fingers brushed, and Suna’s ears turned pink.

  
  


Spring wrapped up a little too quickly for comfort, if Suna were being honest, but he got so swept up in studying for finals that he slipped into a minor haze; it was his fault time passed so quickly, really, he prioritized high test scores above savoring each day. He didn’t give a damn about his grades, but if his report card came back with low marks, his mom would never let him hear the end of it, and he poured all his energy into avoiding that.

  
  


The day before break, Suna rode home with the twins, like always. The weather was nice, the air crisp and clean. Birds chirped around them. It was hot, so he wrapped his jacket around his waist and rolled his sleeves up, his tie loosened.

“Are ya gonna hang out with us over the summer?” Atsumu asked, glancing at Suna over his shoulder, pedaling slightly ahead of him and Osamu. 

“Depends,” Suna said, as if he had anything better to do. “What would we do?”

Atsumu shrugged. “I dunno. Does it matter?”

“I’d be busy during the week,” Osamu chimed in. “But, I could teach ya how to cook on the weekends, Sunarin. I’ve wanted to for a while now.” He laughed lightly. Suna couldn’t see his face, since he was on the bike behind him, but he knew Osamu was grinning, could picture it easily. “Plus, we could all go to a festival t’gether. That’d be fun, right?”

“Sounds alright,” Suna said. “Why would you be busy?”

“I work part-time during breaks,” Osamu explained. “Remember? I’m a cashier at my family’s store.”

Suna blinked. Something clicked in his mind. “Oh,” He said, a bit dumbly. “That’s why you were there.”

“Yep,” Osamu said, popping the ‘p’.

“Well, are ya gonna hang with us or what?” Atsumu looked at him expectantly, turning his attention back to the road when he almost ran into a mailbox. 

“If I have the time,” Suna said, which was synonymous with _yes, you two are my only friends, who else would I hang out with._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I know it's kinda long and pretentious, but its v true to me, and i hope you liked it! please comment <3 and kudos <3 and share <3 idk when the next three acts will be done, i write at inconsistent speeds, but feedback always motivates me so :D thx a bundle. Come talk to me on tumblr and twitter @chemicataclysm (my main tumblr is @toxictrubbles) lol this fic is super self indulgent but i hope somebody other than me feels Seen by it
> 
> here are some notes i made while writing:  
> \- This fic is, first and foremost, a story about mental illness and self acceptance. It’s a love story too, but it’s not about how love will "fix" your flaws, I can't stand that shit. Love heals, I think, but it doesn't fix in the way people think it does. I plan on exploring different perspectives on mental illness and how to cope with in the acts 2 & 3.  
> \- I'm an american, so Idk how the japanese school system works. I did some research but couldn't focus and can't remember. bear with my very american take on their high school experience  
> \- Found out 2/3rds of the way through writing this that the interhigh dates are NOT what i remember and boy do i feel like a clown, can you hear the goddamn circus music? Pls pretend i got the dates right, or that they actually take place when I said they do  
> \- Yes, in high school I was a depressed gay bitch obsessed with russian lit and trying/failing to learn french. No, that's not important.  
> \- Gay people love Richard Siken, I know, but please Takahashi Mutsuo’s work too. He's a gay japanese poet and I love his stuff. Fair warning, it is A LOT but it's very good  
> \- And please please please read Tolstoy please read war and peace please talk to me about it please  
> \- Speaking of Tolstoy, the bus scene with the earbuds mirrors a scene in the book where Natasha and Anatole are talking at the opera. This is intentional, because I like the scene, but its not meant to imply that Osamu and Suna's dynamic is similar to Natasha and Anatole, i wouldn't do them like that  
> \- I've never written poetry on my own before? idk I did it back in school, but its been a bit and i was never good at it  
> \- Huge thanks to Marcus and Hollis for workshopping the one (1) poem in this act with me  
> \- Second thanks to Marcus for being my boyfriend, dealing with my bullshit, and living with me. Sorry for all the times we were cuddling and I was writing and I turned to you and asked if my prose was okay <3 Well, im not sorry at all, but Im sure it was annoying <3 except I dont care if I annoy you ily mwah  
> \- And thank you to Lav on discord for reading over scenes for me  
> \- As a trans man, I didnt really deal with internalized homophobia in the same way a cis man would (growing up I was never ashamed for liking men, it was expected of me, actually) but i did deal with internalized transphobia and it rlly affected how i viewed myself and my crushes/relationships so i drew on that when writing suna, hope its accurate  
> \- [If you're curious I have a playlist I listen to while writing this fic](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLwTj_hggspUwZ_V0nFu54GtUBXXksw1Z9)


	2. "Yer not alone in this, alright?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I couldn't be more sorry about how long this took, but I hope you like it! Believe it or not, I suffer from at times disabling depression (who would've guess lol) so it takes a long time to write, especially at this length. regardless, I worked very hard, and I'm proud of this act. Warnings for themes of depression and abuse, like usual, and at the end of the chapter in particular I'd like to warn for a referenced past suicide attempt and allusions to self harming behavior (not cutting, but still self destructive acts) please proceed with caution and only read if you can handle it

Suna held his arms in the air and stood perfectly still while his mom tied the belt to his yukata. He could’ve done it himself, but she insisted on doing it for him; it seemed she wanted to act like a good mother for a bit, a phase she often had. Their relationship was cyclical: his mom would act like she cared, Suna would tolerate it until he couldn’t, his growing annoyance led to him snapping or lashing out, and, consequently, she’d back off like usual until, eventually, she wanted to parent again. It looped on like that forever and ever, for as long as he could remember and well into the foreseeable future, too.

When he was younger, Suna convinced himself the cycle would end. Every time his mom started acting nice, he’d be hopeful, take it as a sign things were changing for the better. She loved him for real this time, he’d tell himself, she actually cared. 

Now, sixteen years old and disillusioned, he wasn’t so naive.

“You’ve grown into a ladykiller,” She commented, smiling as she knotted his obi and pulled it tight, locking eyes with him in the mirror. “You got all the best genes from your father and I, and none of the bad ones. You’re lucky, Rintarou, you won the genetic lottery.” She brought a hand to his face and pinched his cheek. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you came back with a girlfriend.”

The way she talked about him made his skin itch with discomfort. She treated him like an object, an idea, as anything other than himself. In her eyes, he was nothing but what she wanted.

“Mom,” Suna mumbled, averting his gaze. “I’m gay. You know this.” He wasn’t sure how much attention she paid to his coming out— she’d been snappish about the whole ordeal, rushing to get away— but he knew he told her. 

She laughed lightly, carefree in comparison to Suna’s stiffness; the luxury of being neglectful rather than neglected. “I know, I know,” She waved a hand dismissively. “I was joking! You look so handsome nowadays, I couldn’t resist.” She smoothed out the maroon fabric of his yukata. “I don’t have a problem with you being gay, you know. I had a gay friend back in college.”

Suna pitied any gay man that knew his mom. “Right,” He said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll try and come back with a boyfriend, then, how’s that?” He joked, wanting to keep the mood light.

His mom’s expression shifted ever so slightly, in a way those unfamiliar with her mannerisms wouldn’t recognize. She was still grinning, but something in her eyes betrayed her demeanor, making her displeasure clear. Maybe she didn’t have a _problem_ with Suna’s sexuality, but she certainly had a bone to pick with it. She always expected Suna to turn out straight. Loving men was one of the many ways he let her down.

“I better get going,” Suna said, turning away. “My friends are expecting me.”

“One sec,” His mom said, stepping in front of him. When she lifted her hand and brought it to his forehead, fixing his bangs without warning, Suna flinched. “Your hair’s messed up,” She chided.

“Sorry,” Suna apologized, the response ingrained in his system despite how much he didn’t care.

His mom pulled back. “There, that’s better,” She hummed. 

Suna glanced at the mirror and studied his reflection carefully. His mom was right, he looked good. His yukata fit perfectly, the deep, dark color looked nice against his skin, and the light yellow obi brought out his eyes, making them more piercing than usual. 

“Thanks,” He said, moving to leave. He walked over to the genkan and slipped on his geta. “I’ll text you when I start walking home.”

His mom nodded. “Have fun,” she said.

“I’ll try.”

  
  
  


The walk to the shrine grounds was shorter than expected. Suna sat on a bench while he waited for the twins, watching the sunset and melt into warm shades of red, eventually fading into a curtain call of black. Even with festival lights and lanterns strung up, there was less light pollution here, making stars visible. A small blessing, really, and Suna was thankful for it.

A sky filled with brightness was one he never knew; in Tokyo, nights were a blank, navy gradient. Neon signs and lit windows brought illumination to the skyline, but it was nothing like this, the comforting light surrounding anything and everything, making the world less alone. 

Earth wasn’t a planet surrounded by nothing, abandoned by all else, isolated in the macrocosm of space. It was one body in a crowd of countless, an important piece of a larger infinity, and it belonged right where it sat between Venus and Mars, the planet’s closest friends second only to the moon. There, it completed the universe, perched in a spot meant for it and nothing else. This planet had a home. Suna, too. He smiled, soft and beautiful.

Tonight, the summer air was cool and humid due to the prior day’s rain. Each inhale felt refreshing and each exhale relaxing. It smelled like petrichor.

“Sunarin!” A voice called, and he turned to see the twins running towards him, Atsumu waving excitedly and Osamu in tow, moving with far less energy but smiling as brightly as his brother. They were dressed in matching yukata, something Suna found endlessly endearing. 

“Hey,” Osamu greeted, stopping in front of the bench. “Were ya waitin’ long?”

Suna shook his head. “No, I just got here,” He lied, mostly because he lost track of time. He stood up, smoothing the fabric of his yukata and glancing down, gaze catching on twins’ feet. They were wearing tennis shoes instead of geta, he noticed, and he must’ve made a face because Atsumu laughed, quick to offer an answer to Suna’s unasked question.

“Oh, ‘Samu and I have sensory issues,” He explained. “We gotta wear sneakers around or we start feelin’ like shit. Havin’ stuff between our toes makes us wanna die.”

“Yeah, we only wear geta for photos,” Osamu chirped.

“I see,” Suna said. “Is it caused by something?” He asked, which might’ve been insensitive, but he was curious and it wasn’t like he regarded the twins with caution to begin with. Tact was lost on them, so he could lose it too.

“Never been diagnosed with anythin’, no,” Osamu admitted. “We jus’ did a buncha searchin’ online and it sounded right.”

Atsumu nodded. “Took a lot of Googlin’, but sensory stuff explains it all. We can’t have tags in our shirts, can’t eat certain foods, and other stuff like that. It ain’t a huge deal but ‘s nice to have a name for it.”

The three of them fell into relative silence, with only the sounds of distant excitement and buzzing cicadas around them. Atsumu’s eyes darted all over the place, and he looked from side to side, searching for something.

“Where are yer parents?” He asked after a beat.

Suna blinked. “Huh?”

“Yer parents,” Atsumu repeated. “Where are they?”

Stunned, Suna realized he never shared details about his home life. The twins, his closest and arguably only friends, knew nothing about his situation, his mom, or any of it. They were completely oblivious to the state of his life. As far as they knew, his parents were together and everything was peachy. Briefly, Suna entertained the idea of honesty. He thought about being upfront and admitting how shit it all was, but he didn’t want to be pitied or make things awkward, so he kept them in the dark. He cleared his throat.

“Oh, they’re busy,” He said vaguely. “Where are yours?”

“Laggin’ a bit behind,” Osamu said. He pointed down the road. “They’re too old to run up hills, apparently.”

“When I’m in my forties ‘m gonna make sure I’m in killer shape! I’ll run up all kinds of hills with my kids,” Atsumu said. 

“If ya keep practicin’ without breaks you’ll die before ya reach forty,” Osamu pointed out, rolling his eyes. “And who says somebody’ll want yer kids?”

Atsumu was indignant but didn’t get the chance to refute as their parents made their way over the hill and approached, almost on cue. 

Their mother wore a blue yukata with petals patterned into the fabric, and her black hair was pulled up into a loose bun, bangs clipped out of her face with a floral barrette. Their father, who was slightly shorter than her, wore a plain grey yukata, the cloth tied tight with an orange obi and his eyes framed behind thick rimmed glasses. They waved. 

Atsumu waved back. “Took ya long enough!” He snickered.

Suna frowned. “I didn’t know they were coming,” He mumbled, more to himself than anyone else.

Osamu shot him a weird look. “Why wouldn’t they?”

Suna shrugged. He didn’t have an answer. His parents never accompanied him to these sorts of things. They either shoved him onto other families or abandoned him entirely, leaving him to attend alone. It probably wasn’t right, but it was his normal, fucked up as it may be.

  
  
  


The festival was small, which was expected, but Suna couldn’t say it was disappointing; sure, it was nothing like the large crowds, thousands of lanterns, and breathtaking fireworks in Tokyo, but it felt comforting, and there was a lot more heart here than in the city, Suna thought. 

Something about it was nostalgic even though he never attended till now. He recognized most faces in the crowd: neighbors, teachers, classmates, even the cashier from the boba shop. Everyone was smiling, too, and there was always room to sit, never too many people to the point where Suna felt dizzy or overwhelmed.

Tokyo’s festivals were grand and magical but this, too, was magical in its own way, a specialness unparalleled. 

Suna trailed behind the twins, avoiding their parents as much as possible. They introduced themselves as Chiyo and Takeshi respectively, and they seemed nice enough, but adults and authority figures made him nervous. 

Fortunately, the twins were as goofy and good of company as ever, racing between the rows of stalls and dragging Suna with them, grinning as they bickered and challenged each other to every game in sight, forcing Suna to play judge and mediator. It was tiring, honestly, but it was cute, and he was having fun.

After Atsumu popped one of his yo-yo tsuri, wetting his yukata and nearly throwing a tantrum in the process, their parents banned them from games. Osamu had accumulated more goldfish than he could realistically raise, too, so it was probably a good idea to cut them off. More games meant more popped balloons and more innocent little fish doomed to death at the hands of irresponsible high schoolers. 

Without games to play, the three of them had nothing to do but walk around, Osamu stopping at every food stall he found interesting and Atsumu buying all the toys and souvenirs he could afford, including matching kitsune masks for each of them. Suna mostly stumbled behind them, making idle conversation and spending his allowance more conservatively.

Like Osamu, Suna spent most of his money on food. He had more of a sweet tooth, though, so, while Osamu ate his weight in takoyaki, karaage, and yakitori, Suna snacked on chocolate dipped bananas and kakigori. Eating this much wasn’t great for his health, but today was special; festivals were for having fun, after all, and what was more fun than walking around with your best friends, talking about dumb shit, laughing, dicking around, and munching on sweets? Nothing, that was what. 

“You’d probably like these,” Suna commented, turning to Osamu after taking a bite of his taiyaki. “They’re really good.”

Osamu shook his head, scrunching his nose in disgust. “Nah, probably not. They’re filled with that red bean mush, right? Can’t stand that shit.” He cringed as he spoke, pretending to cough and gag around the words. 

“It’s custard, actually,” Suna corrected. It reminded him of a cake Osamu packed in his bento once, which was the main reason he thought he’d like it.

“Fuck, seriously?” Osamu asked. He glanced at the fish shaped pastry, face lighting up when he confirmed that, yes, it was filled with sweet vanilla custard instead of red bean paste. “Lemme try some.”

Suna stuck his tongue out. “Buy your own,” He said, taking another bite.

“Don’t wanna,” Osamu pouted and, really, he had no right to be so cute. “C’mon, jus’ one bite? I’m runnin’ low on change, Sunarin, don’t be so stingy.” He opened his mouth expectantly, tilting his head up and leaning forward like he knew Suna was weak willed and unable to deny him.

Immediately, Suna felt like his face light up in flames, heart beating out of his chest. He started down at Osamu for a moment, blushing to the tips of his ears. “Whatever,” He muttered, rolling his eyes and holding the taiyaki in front of Osamu’s mouth, struggling to appear nonchalant. He made it a point to look anywhere other than Osamu when he took a bite.

“Tastes great!” Osamu beamed, eyes sparkling, mouth still full of food. He gave a thumbs up as he chewed and swallowed. Suna didn’t have the mental capacity to scold his poor manners. “How’s it feel to be feedin’ me instead of the other way around?” He teased, snickering.

Suna jabbed him in the side, trying not to choke on his spit. “Feels like I’ve been robbed,” He scoffed. “You ate, like, three bites worth, asshole.”

“Never said how big the bite would be,” Osamu pointed out.

“You’re evil,” Suna said, scarfing down the rest of his taiyaki before Osamu could ask for more. He chose not to think about how, technically, this was an indirect kiss.

  
  
  


The twins’ parents separated from them after a bit to watch a dance performance, dragging Atsumu with them and leaving Suna and Osamu alone in the process. They wandered around, chatting idly and playing a few more games together since nobody could stop them now but, eventually, Osamu suggested they go and pray.

 _We’re already at the shrine,_ he reasoned, starting to make his way over, _might as well._

  
  
  


Suna didn’t believe in gods, kami, deities, or any of the like, but there was no harm in praying, inconsequential as he found it. He tossed five yen into the box, rang the bell with both hands, bowed twice in greeting, clapped two times, and shut his eyes, lowering his head in silent prayer. 

_Please help me if you can,_ Suna thought, _please grant me happiness, and please make the awful voice in my head a little quieter or, at the very least, guarantee support through the worst of it. I’m tired of bearing it alone, and would greatly appreciate your assistance. Thank you._

He doubted it’d do anything, but it couldn’t hurt, he figured. Besides, Shinto was about actions and processes more than anything, he’d been told; belief didn’t matter as much as going through the motions properly. It was more of a practice than a religion, with greater weight placed in taking care to carry things out correctly and respectfully, which Suna was sure to do. He was mindful to keep his right hand slightly below his left when clapping, made sure the coin toss was gentle, that it was five yen and not ten, kept his prayer polite and thankful, and bowed carefully, slow and deliberate.

When he was done, Suna bowed again and turned away, smiling at Osamu and walking back down the steps, wooden sandals clacking against the stone surface.

“What did ya pray for?” Osamu piped up as he followed. They stopped at the bottom of the stairs, standing still beneath a large camphor tree. 

“I thought we weren’t supposed to tell,” Suna said, peering at him. Leaves rustled overhead. Distantly, he could hear bells ring and hands clap as more people prayed, voicing their wishes to whatever was listening.

Osamu blinked, head cocked to the side, face painted in soft, golden light from nearby lanterns. “Would tellin’ hurt anythin’?” He asked.

“I wouldn’t know, I don’t usually do this sort of thing,” Suna admitted with a small shrug, mumbling. “I only pray on new years.” Osamu looked ethereal, and it was hard to get words out.

If gods were real, he was probably one of them; Suna should’ve been praying to him earlier instead of the local kami. Him, the embodiment of all he wanted with a shrine built into his last name, primed for devotion, holy and sacred, worthy of worship, somebody who could walk through the middle of torii gates, footsteps divine in nature.

“I don’t pray much either, but I’ll tell ya mine if you tell me yers,” Osamu said. “ How’s that?”

Suna nodded. “Alright, you first, then,” He said.

“I asked for luck at interhigh next year,” Osamu said with a grin. “And for you to be a startin’ player, too, so we can be in more matches t’gether.” His admission was earnest and left Suna reeling, equal parts flustered and surprised. His eyes widened for a moment before wrinkling up in a genuine smile, too caught off guard to suppress it.

“Really? I thought you’d ask for something stupid, like more pudding or less homework,” He said with a breathless laugh, trying to play off the warmth quickly filling his rosy cheeks. He didn’t peg Osamu as the type to take this seriously but, then again, this was his idea to begin with, so Suna should’ve known better.

Osamu chuckled, sheepish. “That too, honestly.”

“You can only ask for so much, y’know,” Suna chastised. “It’s rude to read a laundry list of shit you want, they’ll ignore you if you do.”

“Probably,” Osamu agreed. “I don’t care, though, jus’ figured I’d ask. Formalities and all that.” He gestured with his hand. “We don’t need help, we’re strong ‘nuff as is.”

“So you think we’ll make it to nationals again? Think I’ll be a starting player, even without the gods on our side?”

Osamu nodded. “Yep,” He said, honest and genuine with no hint of irony. Suna fell silent, face growing hotter as he processed the statement, the weight of it all, and the absolute faith Osamu placed in him and the rest of the team. “Well?” Osamu took a step forward, closer to Suna. “Are ya gonna share too?”

Suna shrugged again, taking a step back, looking away, and trying to appear impassive. “Funny, I asked to be a starting player, too,” he lied.

  
  
  


They all met back up again shortly and, after watching fireworks together, decided to call it a night. It was getting late. The twins were getting tired. They were too stubborn to admit it, of course, but the way they yawned and rubbed at their eyes made it clear. Before they parted ways at the gates, Chiyo, the twins’ mom, took Suna’s hand in her own and gave it a firm shake.

“It was nice meeting you, Suna-kun,” She said, grinning. “Our boys are always talking about you. I’m glad they have such a nice friend, you’re such a sweet boy, thanks for sticking with them.” Her words were honest, but when the twins squawked in embarrassment, hiding their faces and turning away, it was clear that she was teasing them, too. The twinkle in her eyes and light laugh made it obvious, a trait that clearly ran in the family. “You should come over for dinner sometime.”

Their dad, Takeshi, agreed, nodding. “Yep! Just text the twins before ya come over, so I know to cook ya up somethin’ nice!” 

Suna gave a polite smile, nodding as well, pulling his hands away from Chiyo. “Of course, I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. The twins had such nice parents, this wasn’t fair at all. He wanted to be part of their family. “I better get going,” He said softly, stepping back and bowing ever so slightly.

“So should we,” Chiyo said, bowing back at Suna. Takeshi was already turned away, starting to walk the twins home. “Have a good night,” She hummed, waving goodbye.

“Thanks, you too.” Suna waved back and went off in the direction of his house, pulling his phone out to text his mom and let her know he was heading home.

Back in his room, Suna hung his new mask up above his bed and smiled. 

  
  
  


About a week later, by chance, Suna and his mom ended up in the kitchen at the same time, which was rare. Suna had woken up a bit earlier than normal, and his mom’s shift started a bit later than normal. Life had a way of balancing itself out; good times were followed by bad and vice versa. Festivals meant breakfast with his mom, apparently. 

“Make me coffee too,” She said as she got herself a bowl of rice, dumping natto on top and cracking in a raw egg. She took a seat at the table and mixed it all together with her chopsticks. “Black, please. No cream or sugar.” 

Suna’s nose scrunched up in disgust. He couldn’t stand natto and didn’t get why his mom drank her coffee black; cream and sugar was what made it bearable. “Sure,” He said anyway, grabbing another mug and spooning instant coffee in it while the water boiled.

When the coffee was done, he set the two mugs on the table and sat down across from his mom, staring at his plate. He started eating breakfast to get Osamu off his back. It was nice, usually, but he wasn’t that hungry right now, not with his mom watching. Toast and bananas looked revolting right about now, to be perfectly honest. He thought about skipping but remembered the long winded, annoying lecture Osamu gave him a while back and took a bite of his toast.

“Thank you,” His mom said, sipping on the coffee Suna gave her. “You know, I was talking with my coworker yesterday, and her son’s attending cram school in Kobe. It’s nice, she said. Lots of good teachers and successful alumni.” Suna braced himself for another painful conversation and pulled his phone out to serve as a distraction. “They’re doing a special summer course, too, so new students can try classes without committing. I think it’d be good for you to attend, don’t you? You’re gonna be a second year, Rintarou, it’s smart to be ahead of the curve.”

Suna frowned. He needed a way to get out of this because saying no wasn’t a good enough answer and giving in for the summer meant giving in until he graduated. “I’m busy all summer,” He mumbled, not looking up from his phone. “Can’t go.”

“With what?” She didn’t believe him, which he couldn’t blame her for. Up until recently, he didn’t have much of a life.

“My friends and I made plans, we’re spending most of break together. I’m already committed to it, sorry,” He explained, taking a sip of his coffee, which had tooth rotting amounts of sugar in it and so much cream you could barely taste the bitterness. 

“Who? Which friends?” His mom pressed.

“My teammates, the ones I went to the festival with. We play volleyball together.”

She blinked. “You’re still playing that?”

Suna bit back a scowl. She didn’t know shit about him, did she? “Never stopped,” He said with a shrug. “Our team’s pretty strong, you know. Inarizaki’s a powerhouse school. We went to nationals last year, and we’ll go again this year.”

“You went to nationals?” She gawked at him, somewhere between shock and rage. “Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve done something to celebrate.” She took a bite of her rice. “You should’ve told me.”

“You never asked, and you weren’t home.”

It was silent after that, awkward and all too tense. Suna scrolled through his texts with Osamu, reading and rereading the most recent message over and over. He took a bite of his banana and chewed slowly, trying to appear bored rather than anything else.

_Wanna come over for dinner tonight?? My dad keeps asking if u will lol_

His thumbs hovered over the keys in quiet contemplation. He knew the answer he wanted to give but wasn’t sure if he could say it. He looked over at his mom. “You’re working tonight, right?” He asked.

She nodded. “And staying overnight, sorry.”

Suna didn’t think she had the right to apologize. They had more than enough money, she had no reason to take as many shifts as she did. She was avoiding something. What it was, he didn’t know, he couldn’t say it was clear, but, still, it was her choice to be gone so much. “Figures,” he muttered bitterly.

_I’m free, what time should I come over?_

“I don’t appreciate your tone,” His mom snapped. “Drop the attitude, Rintarou, I’m your mom not some monster. I work hard to put food on the table, you should be grateful.”

“Leave if you don’t want to hear it. That’s what you always do, isn’t it?” Suna huffed, standing up, breakfast only half eaten. He chugged the rest of his coffee and turned away, heading towards his room.

“Don’t make me ground you,” She threatened. 

Suna shot her a glare over his shoulder. “Do what you want,” He said. “You can’t even enforce it. You’re gone all the time, how would you know what I’m up to?” He pocketed his phone. “I’m going to my friend’s for dinner tonight. Have fun in Kobe.”

He walked into his room, shutting and locking the door. Distantly, he could hear his mom yelling, but it was muffled through the walls and he grabbed his headphones to tune it out. 

He didn’t notice his shaking hands or wet eyes until he sat down on the bed.

  
  
  


He ended up in front of the Miya family’s front door a few hours later. Their house was a bit nicer than his but still in the same state of worn down and well lived, with sun faded paint and ivy crawling up to the second story. Hesitantly, Suna rang the doorbell, smiling back at Atsumu when he answered it.

The twins had been playing in the backyard together, apparently, practicing serves and receives, so their dad sent them upstairs to change and wash their hands before they ate, leaving Suna alone with him in the kitchen.

He looked around absentmindedly, willing his face to remain expressionless. It’d been a bit since he last had a home cooked meal, and he felt bad for making their dad go to all this trouble, especially when Osamu was already feeding him at school. He felt like he was taking a lot from the Miya family, honestly, and he rarely gave anything in return. Wasn’t this too much for a guy like him? Was he even worthy?

“You didn’t have to cook all this because I was coming over,” Suna said, glancing up at Takeshi, who was standing in front of the stove, finishing up the food. He offered an apologetic smile. “Something simple would’ve been fine.”

Takeshi shook his head, flipping the food over in the pan. “I’m always lookin’ for excuses to cook nice stuff,” He assured. “It’s no trouble at all, Suna-kun. ‘Sides, ‘s a special occasion, ain’t it?”

“Not really,” Suna said with a shrug. “I’m just having dinner. I mean, thank you, it looks good, but like…” He trailed off, averting his gaze. “I don’t know, I feel kinda bad.”

“It’s a big deal for us, so ya don’t gotta feel bad, promise. The twins haven’t had friends over in a while,” He explained. “I know ‘s kinda hard to believe, but they have trouble socializin’. They stick t’gether ‘stead of makin’ new friends, ‘cause ‘s easier for them, I guess.” Suna had no clue why he was sharing all this but nodded along. “I’m glad they’ve got each other, and ‘s nice they’re not alone, don’t get me wrong, but, like-” He paused for a moment to move the okonomiyaki from the pan to a plate. “I’m even happier they’re friends with you, is what I’m gettin’ at. Their mom is, too.” He smiled. “Thanks for hangin’ out with our boys.”

Hearing that was a bit of a shock for Suna, and the words barely registered at first. The twins had trouble making friends? But they were so nice, so easy to talk to, and so popular. Friendship with them was effortless, and he always expected them to have endless friends in the same way they had endless confessions. It made sense now that he thought about it, though. The twins spent all their free time on the court or goofing off with him. Sometimes, they hung out with Aran outside of school, but that wasn’t too often; Aran was usually with the other third years. He rarely saw them with anyone else.

“Oh,” Suna said dumbly, unsure what else to say. “It’s no problem. They’re good friends.”

“Plus, even if they had people over all the time, it’d still be special, wouldn’t it?” Takeshi continued as he poured sauce and mayo on the okonomiyaki, topping it with bonito flakes, tenkasu, and aonori after. He turned to Suna and grinned. “Don’t yer parents make somethin’ nice when they have guests? Company’s always a special occasion.”

Suna grimaced. “They don’t,” He mumbled.

Takeshi frowned. “They don’t?” 

“No,” Suna said, shaking his head. “They’re pretty busy. We get takeout a lot.”

“Well, I guess we can’t all be house husbands, can we?” Takeshi said with a chuckle, setting more plates of okonomiyaki onto the table than Suna thought they’d need. It was a lot of food. Too much, almost, until he remembered how much food the twins alone went through. “Tell ya what, since yer usually stuck with takeout, I’ll let ya have a bite before everyone else. Sound good?” He handed Suna a fork, and cut him a serving, putting it on the plate in front of him.

“Sounds fine,” Suna said, moving to take a bite.

Takeshi stopped him. “Wait, wait,” He said. Suna was confused for a moment until Takeshi grabbed a separate fork and took a bite before him, winking. “Had to make sure it wasn’t poisoned.”

Suna froze up, a nervous chuckle leaving his throat as he ate a bite too, overwhelmed by kindness. This house was so full of love, and the food was amazing. The households of his teammates routinely filled him with longing and heartache, as well as comfort so great his skin crawled. Special treatment? Poison checks? Good natured parents? It left him reeling. This was the sort of stuff he saw in movies, not the stuff he got to experience. The twins lucked out with their parents. Before he knew it, he was blinking back tears. Takeshi shot him a concerned look, but Suna held up a hand, signaling for him to stop.

“Don’t,” He said quietly. “Don’t say anything. I’m fine, sorry. I just-” His voice cracked, and he looked down, wiping at his eyes and taking a deep breath. “You’re a good dad.”

Before their dad could question Suna any further, the twins came running back downstairs, changed out of their gym clothes with freshly cleaned hands. They took a seat at the table, Atsumu to Suna’s left and Osamu to his right.

“Ya made okonomiyaki?” Osamu beamed, eyes bright.

Takeshi nodded. “Yep. Figured I’d make something nice since Suna’s here.” He said, turning to Suna and smiling, kind, loving, and understanding. “Go ahead and start eatin’, yer mom’s runnin’ late and this stuff’s better hot, yeah? She’ll understand.” He took his apron off, hung it up, and sat down with the three of them at the table.

“Thanks for the food,” They said in unison before digging in, making stupid conversation all the while. Suna felt at ease, the earlier overwhelming warmth now mellowed out, slowly filling his body and making him feel happy and lighthearted. Loved, even. 

Ten minutes into the meal, the front door swung open, and Chiyo walked in, waving. “I’m home!” She called, kicking her shoes off and coming into the kitchen, face lighting up when she saw Suna at the table. 

“Suna-kun! Good to see you,” She grinned, ruffling his hair. “Give me a sec to get changed, I’ll join you guys after, ‘kay?”

They all nodded, Suna included. For the second time, Suna desperately wanted to be a part of their family.

  
  
  


After dinner, everyone crowded into the living room for a video game tournament. It was Atsumu’s idea, unsurprisingly, but it was a lot more fun than Suna expected. He wasn’t a particularly competitive person, but even he got caught up in intense matches of Wii Sports and Just Dance, duking it out with both the twins and their parents until he could barely breathe. He got his ass kicked in most games, honestly, but was, without a doubt, the champion of Wii bowling. Nobody held a candle to his technique, and he got so many strikes Osamu thought he was cheating. Suna stuck his tongue out and got another one.

By the end of it, they were all pretty tired, and Suna was collapsed on the couch, scrolling through his phone idly and smiling like an idiot. Unbeknownst to everyone, he took photos between games, and he’d cherish them forever, he decided. This was some of the most fun he had in awhile outside of the gym, and he could’ve played for longer if everyone else wanted to, despite feeling seconds from passing out.

“It’s getting late,” Chiyo spoke up with a yawn, standing and stretching before turning to Suna. “Want a ride home?”

Suna thought for a moment, lips pursed as he mulled it over. He should probably get going since he’d been over for a few hours now, but he didn’t want to; he also recalled the breakdown he had after leaving Kita’s place last spring and didn’t want a repeat of that. Going home would be a bad idea, he thought, since being alone after this would make his mood crash and burn, which was inevitable, but he couldn’t help wanting to delay it.

“Can I spend the night?” He asked quietly, a request he’d normally never make. He hated taking up space and wasting resources or time. Tonight, though, he allowed himself selfishness. The Miyas were nice. Their house was welcoming. He wanted to stay here for as long as he could. “My mom said I could if I wanted to.” She hadn’t said shit, actually, but she was out of town again, like always. What he did in her absence was none of her business.

Chiyo’s face lit up. “Of course you can!” She grinned. “I’ll set up a futon for you in the boys’ room. Do you need a toothbrush? Clothes? You’re taller than the twins, but their pajamas should fit you fine.” She turned to Osamu. “Samu-chan, can you get him something to wear?” Osamu nodded and went upstairs.

“Sorry for the trouble,” Suna said.

“It’s no trouble at all, sweetheart,” Chiyo assured, and Suna felt like crying again. “We’re happy to have you. You’re always welcome to stay over.” 

  
  
  


Suna went to sleep on a warm, fluffy futon, dressed in Osamu’s clothes and clutching a stuffed Vabo-chan plush Atsumu tossed him. When he woke up, he could smell breakfast cooking downstairs. Atsumu was still sleeping soundly, snoring from the top bunk, but Osamu was nowhere to be seen. Somewhat reluctantly, Suna pushed himself off the futon and stumbled his way to the kitchen, taking a seat at the table, unsurprised to see Osamu in front of the stove.

“Oh, yer up,” Osamu said, glancing over his shoulder at Suna. “I figured you’d sleep in like ‘Tsumu does. Thought I’d hafta wake ya both up.”

“Good morning to you too,” Suna mumbled, breaking off into a yawn, tone not quite bitter but definitely sarcastic. “What’re you making?”

“Nothin’ fancy, just rice, eggs, and soup. We’re low on ingredients,” Osamu said. “Dad’s out runnin’ errands and mom’s at work, before ya ask. I have the day off, so I figured I’d cook. You’re fine with what ‘m makin’, right?”

“Sounds fine. Better than what I usually have, honestly.”

Osamu frowned, brows creased. “What do ya normally eat? Yer not skippin’ meals again, are ya? I told you how unhealthy that is-”

“I’m still eating breakfast, I swear,” Suna assured quickly, cutting Osamu off before he could start lecturing him. “I usually have toast and whatever fruit we have in the house. Yogurt, too, sometimes, when my mom buys it. That enough?”

“It’s better than nothing,” Osamu conceded with a sigh. It looked like he still wanted to tell Suna off, but he bit his tongue, saving the lecture for another day.

They slipped into comfortable silence afterward, with Osamu cooking and Suna watching, hearts in his hooded, half asleep eyes. The scene was oddly domestic to him. It was easy to picture being more than friends like this, easy to imagine waking up every morning to breakfast on the stove and a kitchen full of love. Suna smiled, cheeks dusted with pink. 

“Can ya set the table? I gotta wake ‘Tsumu up,” Osamu said, looking over his shoulder again, pulling Suna out of his thoughts. “Chopsticks are in the drawer to the left of the sink, and we each get two bowls.” He gestured to the food on the counter, portioned and lined up, ready to be eaten. “Don’t worry about drinks.” He turned the stove off while he spoke, evidently done cooking. Suna nodded, watching Osamu leave and then walking over to the counter, carrying the bowls back to the table one at a time, setting them down carefully. 

By the time Osamu came back, tugging a sleepy Atsumu in with him, Suna had already taken his seat again, chopsticks placed at each of their spots.

“Couldn’t ya wait a bit?” Atsumu whined as he walked into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes and squinting from the bright lights. “Wakin’ a guy up this early is cruel, ‘specially in the summer.”

“I woke up at six, dumbass. I waited four hours.” Osamu rolled his eyes and flicked Atsumu’s forehead. “Make us coffee.”

Atsumu stuck his tongue out. “Asshole.”

“Prick.”

“Cunt.”

“Fuckface.”

“Why do I hafta make the coffee? Huh? Can’t you do it?” Atsumu pouted, scowling and glaring at his brother. “This is unfair, y’know. Textbook Atsu-phobia. Yer forcin’ me to work, ‘s child labor. I hate it here.”

“I did the cookin’, and Sunarin set the table,” Osamu reasoned as he sat down. “You oughta do somethin’, too. It’s only fair.”

Atsumu grumbled something inaudible under his breath but walked over to the coffee maker anyway. Suna and Osamu, for all their teasing, waited for him to sit back down before they started eating.

  
  
  


When they finished breakfast, they sat on the couch together, Suna in the middle with the twins on either side, watching an old V.League match Atsumu recorded ages ago. Halfway into the third set, the Hornets were in the lead but Kanahawa had momentum, and Suna was itching to leave. Not for any particular reason, but the urge was strong. This was nice, but he couldn’t stay; the twins were probably tired of him by now.

“I better get going, gotta get home before my mom does,” Suna said abruptly, standing up. “Want me to change back into my clothes? Or should I give yours back some other time?” He asked, looking at Osamu.

“You can keep em’,” Osamu said, standing up too. “I don’t wear em’ anymore, so it ain’t a big deal, they’re takin’ up space here. Plus, ya look better in them than I do.” He grabbed the remote and paused the game, tossing it to the side. “I’ll give ya a ride home.”

Suna nodded, cheeks dusted with pink. “It sounds like you’re trying to get rid of these,” He said. “But, alright, I’ll take them off your hands.”

“Thanks, ’m sick of em’, honestly ” Osamu laughed as he walked towards the door, slipping on his shoes. Suna trailed behind him and tugged on his sneakers. “I’m serious, though, I always look stupid in em’. You look less stupid, somehow. Dunno how, but ya do.”

“If you say so,” Suna said, rolling his eyes. This was dumb. There was no reason to be this flustered. They were talking about a t-shirt with pizza stains and a faded, screen printed logo on the chest. They were talking about baggy cotton pants with cartoon character prints. Still, being given clothes and told he looked good in them made his heart skip a beat. “Why do you even own these, anyway? It sounds like you hate them.”

Osamu shrugged. “Dad bought 'em for me last year, and I didn’t wanna tell him how bad they looked,” He said. “Now, c’mon, let’s get ya home.” 

  
  
  


Suna didn’t plan on hanging out again until a decent amount of time passed, not wanting to be annoying, clingy, or otherwise overbearing; the twins, however, had different plans. They texted him almost every day, asking him to come over and play games, watch movies, practice receives, or just laze around in each other’s company.

At first, he wasn’t comfortable, always on edge, afraid he’d overstay his welcome soon enough. This sort of closeness was foreign to him. Slowly, though, he grew used to it and was fine spending more time at their house than his own, becoming a regular face in the Miya household. Him coming over wasn’t a question anymore— it was expected. He had a toothbrush in the bathroom now, slippers by the door, pajamas washed, folded, and ready to be worn, and Chiyo bought pudding in multiples of three so he could have some too.

The twins’ parents started calling him ‘Rin-chan’ at some point, and their affection grew from ruffled hair and pats on the back to hugs and pinched cheeks. The twins stopped asking him to hang out, eventually, knowing he’d show up on his own accord.

Most days, it was only him and Atsumu, since Osamu was at work, but at night or on weekends, all three of them were there to wreak havoc. According to Takeshi, Suna’s presence made life more and less chaotic at the same time, oddly enough. Suna laughed, saying the twins did the same for him.

The strangest thing about it was how natural it felt. Suna barely noticed how easily he fell into a routine of waking up and walking over to the Miya’s house first thing each morning, how effortlessly hugging the twins’ parents back became, and how at home he felt. 

It wasn’t until he was in the kitchen one afternoon, helping himself to leftovers, that he realized he practically lived there these days. The thought was fleeting and didn’t concern him at all.

  
  
  


“Please lemme teach ya how to cook somethin’,” Osamu said one day, standing in the doorway to the living room. “Summer’s halfway over and ya still haven’t let me. I’m gonna die if ya keep takin’ yer shitty fried rice to school, and ‘m drivin’ myself mad wonderin’ if that’s what ya eat at home, too.”

“Can I finish this chapter first?” Suna asked, looking up from his phone. He was sprawled out on the couch in front of the fan, and he’d been reading _The Brothers Karamazov_ by Dostoevsky. Recently, he started reading e-books rather than physical ones, finding them to be much more convenient. He still preferred the feel and weight of printed copies, but he couldn’t say lugging two inch thick novels around was practical. “I’m almost done.”

“Yer gonna ask if you can finish the next chapter after that, then the next, and the next, and we’ll never do anythin’,” Osamu argued. “Plus, aren’t ya hungry? Read later, let’s cook.”

Suna turned his phone off and stood up. Osamu had a point, he was pretty hungry; they hadn’t eaten lunch yet and, when they made popcorn earlier, Atsumu ate most of it, even taking the half popped kernels. “Alright, fine. What are we making?”

Osamu grinned. “Oyakodon,” He said. “It’s easy, don’t worry. It was one of the first things my dad taught me how to cook.”

  
  
  


The ingredients were already laid out on the counter, and Suna looked over them with ambivalence, lips pursed. Cooking didn’t scare him, but it didn’t interest him either. He was bad at it because he never cared to get better. Osamu’s excitement was contagious, though, and he was almost eager to start just so he could see him smile more. He didn’t care about the actual activity, but fuck if he didn’t care about Osamu and that damned smile of this. They washed their hands together and put aprons on side by side, much to Suna’s delight. 

Osamu reached into his pocket before they started. “Yer gonna wanna clip yer bangs out of the way,” He explained as Suna stared at the barrettes being waved in front of his face. They were plastic and brightly colored, with strawberries on two and a bunny on the other. “I clip my fringe back, too. Stole these from my mom ages ago.” He took a step closer. “Here, tilt yer head down for me, tall ass.”

Suna did as he was told, leaning forward too, trying his best not to cringe, blush, or emote at all when Osamu clipped his bangs to the side. Osamu pulled away when he was done and clipped his hair, too, like he said he would. Seeing Osamu’s grey hair fastened out of place with a strawberry barrette made Suna want to run home and squeal into a pillow. He took a moment to thank Chiyo for having such cute hair clips because, even if they weren’t to his taste, it blessed him with this sight, something he wanted to commit to memory and burn into his retinas. He wanted nothing more than to kiss Osamu’s forehead right now.

“Alright, now we can cook,” Osamu said. “First we gotta cut everythin’ up. Do ya know how to dice an onion?” Suna nodded. “How about debone a chicken thigh?” At that, Suna shook his head. Osamu grinned. “We’ll start with that, then. I’ll show ya how to do it, and you’ll try after me. Sound good?”

Suna nodded and watched as Osamu grabbed the first chicken thigh, talking through which cuts to make, what angles to cut at, how to make sure there wasn’t any meat left on the bone, and how to butterfly the meat and cut it into even chunks. He was slow and careful with his explanation, and Suna was far more interested than he expected to be. Something about the passion and practice Osamu spoke with was captivating. Or, maybe he was so in love that anything Osamu said was gospel. Both, probably.

When he was done, Osamu set the knife down and grabbed the second chicken thigh. “Ready to try?” He asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Suna said, laughing lightly. “I’m not gonna be as good as you.”

“Tha’s fine,” Osamu assured. “It’s yer first time, ain’t it? I don’t expect ya to be a pro chef or anythin’. As long as the chicken’s cut and yer hands aren’t, ‘s fine.” 

“I guess you’re right,” Suna said, picking up the knife and trying his best to copy what Osamu did earlier. He was far clumsier, and there was a lot more meat left on the bone when he was done but, surprisingly, he didn’t fuck it up royally. Osamu watched with a smile.

“Ya did way better than I did my first time,” Osamu said. He picked up two onions and peeled the skins off. “You said ya know how to dice em’, right? Why don’t ya go ahead and do that while I make the dashi stock?” He handed them to Suna. “It’s only addin’ powder to water, so I don’t think I need to explain it.”

“You’re not making it from scratch?” Suna asked. “I kinda expected you to.”

“I have before, but ‘s a lotta work when doin’ it with the powder is so much quicker,” Osamu said. “You gotta add soy sauce, mirin, and sugar to it when yer makin’ oyakodon, but I don’t gotta explain that either. Ya just eyeball the ingredients.”

Once the onions were diced and the dashi stock was made, Osamu put a small pan on the stove, turning it to medium high heat. “Now’s the fun part,” He said as he added half of the onions into the pan followed by chicken and enough stock to cover it all. “Ya let it cook like this for a bit, then flip over the chicken and let it cook a little longer. While the chicken and onions are cookin’, ya crack two eggs into a cup.” Osamu did just that, beating them with chopsticks. “When the chicken‘s cooked through, pour the egg in slowly, stir it a little, and leave it alone.”

Osamu walked away from the stove to grab a bowl and fill it halfway with rice from the rice cooker. “By the time ya get yer rice, the egg’ll be cooked enough, and all ya gotta do is dump everything into yer bowl,” He explained as he poured the contents into his bowl and put the pan back on the stove. “Go ahead and give it a try.”

Suna nodded and, like with the chicken thigh, copied Osamu’s movements with far less practice and precision. Still, when he poured it all out over rice, it looked edible, and he felt proud of himself, unable to keep from grinning. They washed their hands again, still side by side, and sat at the table to eat. Suna’s face lit up when he took a bite. “It actually tastes good,” He said, surprised.

Osamu laughed. “Yeah?” He said, biting into his own oyakodon. 

“Yeah,” Suna said. “Normally everything I cook tastes like shit.”

“That’s ‘cause ya didn’t know what you were doin’. Everybody can cook good food, y’know, but it ain’t somethin’ you can do if ya don’t know how,” Osamu said. “I had a good teacher, but if the person tellin’ ya how to cook doesn’t know what they’re doin’, everythin’ ya make is gonna taste like shit. Bad teachin’ means bad cookin’.”

“Makes sense,” Suna agreed. “Your dad taught you how to cook, right? He’s pretty good, so of course you’re good too.”

“Who taught you? Yer parents?

Suna shrugged. “Nobody, I guess. My parents didn’t let me into the kitchen until recently, and I never paid attention in home ec. I had to figure it out on my own.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

Osamu frowned. “That sucks. Food’s what connects people, I think. Teachin’ it, cookin’ it, sharin’ it— all of it, really, ’s a way of lovin’ and showin’ ya care, and ’s important.” He looked away. “Well, ‘s important to me, anyway.” He sighed. “Sorry nobody taught ya how sooner.”

“It’s fine,” Suna said, frowning too. He never thought about it like that. To him, food was food, but Osamu thought of it differently. Things made more sense, knowing that; Osamu caring so much about his lunch, lecturing him for skipping meals, sharing snacks so often, and practically begging to teach him how to cook was all recontextualized. Food was how Osamu showed he cared, a mindset he picked up from his father, no doubt. Suna pictured recipe books with colored tabs, favorite meals on special occasions, and homemade birthday cakes, once more filled with longing for a childhood he never had.

His parents always left take-out on the counter or gave him money for convenience store snacks. When they did cook, they never asked him what he wanted, and it was never a way of expressing affection. It was thoughtless and loveless. He wondered if his mom knew his favorite food. He wondered if he had a favorite food. He liked chuupet a lot, but it wasn’t special to him, it just tasted good. Maybe, if he’d been raised differently, he’d think like Osamu and see food as more than what it appeared to be on the surface. 

He took another bite of his Oyakodon and started stuffing his face, scarfing it down in that same gross way the twins normally ate. Knowing this meal was made with love, an expression of Osamu’s care, and knowing he made it himself, an unintentional act of self love, made it taste better, and he felt the need to finish it quickly, to fill himself up with all that affection he never knew, had been oblivious to until now.

  
  
  


The rest of break passed like that: lazy days in the living room, cooking lessons with Osamu, stupid antics with Atsumu, love from their parents, and makeshift volleyball practice in the backyard. They got boba tea, ate pudding, and watched more movies in a few weeks than Suna did most years.

It was, undoubtedly, the best time he ever had. 

That last summer night spent in the twin’s bedroom curled up in blankets and trying not to fall asleep first, Atsumu looked Suna in the eyes, smiling wide from the top bunk.

 _Let’s do this again next year,_ he said in a hushed voice, _Promise ya will._

Suna laughed at that. _I don’t need to promise. What else would I do?_ And, truly, he wanted to do nothing but this until the day he died, childish as that sounded.

When break was over, Suna could say with complete honesty that he’d never been happier. It was a summer of complete happiness with memories he’d treasure forever, the sort of thing that reminded him what it meant to be alive. Any dull moments he might’ve had couldn’t weigh it down. 

  
  
  


School started soon enough, and Suna woke up before his alarm on the first day. He went through his usual routine— brushing his teeth, fixing his hair, getting dressed, drinking coffee and, now, eating breakfast— then sat on the bathroom sink, his mom’s eyeliner pencil in hand, staring at his reflection.

Being gay didn’t have to mean changing his presentation, he knew that, but he wanted to experiment; his second year would be his first as an out gay man and, now that he had nothing to lose, he wanted to try new things, change the way he looked, and carry himself differently because why the fuck not? Still, it was a bit daunting. He couldn’t deny that. His hands shook, and he hesitated, afraid he might mess it up, look like shit, or be judged more than anticipated. 

There was a knock on the door, and Suna sucked in a deep breath. _It’s now or never,_ he reasoned with himself, leaning forward. Carefully, as carefully as he could, he applied his eyeliner in the same way girls in tutorials did, pulling back and smiling when he was done. It looked good. He liked it. The black framed his eyes nicely, making them stand out and pop. _Definitely a good decision._

He put the eyeliner back in his mom’s makeup bag, grabbed his backpack, pulled on his converse, and swung open the front door, greeting the twins with a lazy wave. Neither of them said anything about his appearance. Suna wondered whether or not that was a good thing.

  
  
  


The day was fine, nothing noteworthy; it passed quickly and seamlessly, the final bell ringing before anything could actually start. Classes were boring as ever, teachers annoying like usual, and everything going how it always did: lessons, lunch, and more lessons followed by a healthy helping of volleyball. The only thing worth writing home about was Osamu’s behavior, and the reasons for that weren’t positive: He seemed different today. Quieter, almost.

At lunch, he barely spoke, and his face betrayed nothing. He was harder to read, expression barely changing outside of a few quirks and twitches, almost like he was holding himself back. He was calmer, too, without a doubt. That wouldn’t have been a bad thing— both of the twins could do with mellowing out— but it was jarring to Suna, feeling foreign and wrong. His calm was the eye of a hurricane, the final few seconds before everything fell apart at the seams, crumbling to pieces. Osamu wasn’t acting like himself. He seemed like a completely different person, almost. He didn’t even argue with Atsumu at practice, only offering a short, dry quip, calling him lame and moving on.

Suna had no clue what could’ve happened in the two days between the last time they hung out and now. 

After practice, outside the clubroom, Atsumu and Suna looked at each other with equally bewildered expressions while Osamu finished changing.

  
  
  


“What’s up with him?” Suna asked, looking across the bench at Atsumu. They were waiting together outside their usual boba tea place for Osamu, who was inside buying their drinks. It was the perfect opportunity to speculate, and Suna pointed at him through the window, so Atsumu would know what he was talking about. “He’s been acting weird all day. Did something happen?”

Atsumu shook his head and shrugged. “Nah, no clue. ‘Samu was normal this mornin’, I swear,” He said, paying more attention to his nail file than anything else, gaze fixed on his hands. “He yelled at me for wakin’ up late, took too long in the shower, and helped dad with breakfast, y’know, like always. Can’t think of anythin’ that went wrong. He didn’t start actin’ weird till we got to school.” He sighed. “What about durin’ class? Somethin’ happen then?”

“No, everything was fine,” Suna said, frowning and leaning back, brows knitting together as he tried to think of a reason. “Did you piss him off?”

“Not more than usual,” Atsumu mumbled. He glanced at Suna. “Think he’s plottin’ to kill me?”

“Maybe,” Suna mused, smirking. “Wouldn’t blame him.”

Atsumu kicked him in the shin. “Hey! This is serious, Sunarin, ‘m tryin’ to figure out if I should change my name and skip town,” He huffed. “Samu’s givin’ me the creeps. When I go missin’, tell the cops it was him.”

Suna rolled his eyes, snorting. “Sure, whatever.”

They shut up when Osamu walked out of the store carrying three cups and wearing his usual, lazy grin, eyes brighter than they’d been all day. “Sorry that took so long, the line was kinda long,” He said before passing the drinks out. “Green tea for Sunarin, coconut for this asshole, and milk tea for me.” He sat down between Suna and Atsumu, seemingly back to normal. “What were ya talkin’ about?”

“Nothin’ much,” Atsumu mumbled, taking a sip of his drink. “Just tellin’ Suna he oughta practice more ‘s all.”

  
  
  


The rest of the week went like the first day and, slowly, Suna grew accustomed to the new Osamu. His concern hadn’t faded, of course, but he stopped shooting Atsumu puzzled looks, stopped speculating, and let his contemplation take a back seat until he could work up the courage to ask Osamu about it himself. He was normal outside of school, anyway, so he figured it was nothing to worry about. Around Suna and Atsumu, away from everyone else, Osamu was his usual self, charming smiles, stupid bullshit, and all. 

So, in the meantime, Suna got better at doing eyeliner. With practice, his strokes became cleaner, less sloppy, looking nicer each day. He traded his mom’s cheap pencil for something nicer he found online, something waterproof that he could wear in games. He was becoming comfortable with makeup, and the freedom it brought was nice. It was something unexpected of him; he felt like he was truly expressing himself for the first time in a while, a small bit of personality showing through in a uniformed crowd. Masculinity was always pushed on him. Now, he pushed back, if only slightly. It made him more confident. Surprisingly, Nobody gave him shit for it, which was a plus. He got a few stares, a few raised brows, and one or two compliments from girls in his class, but nothing that made his life harder.

They were two and a half weeks into the school year now, Osamu was still acting quiet, and Suna started painting his nails black, too.

  
  
  


At the beginning of the third week, before class, Suna finally spoke up.

He and Osamu were the only ones in the classroom, splitting milk bread like usual, saying nothing. In all honesty, they hadn’t been talking much lately, not since summer ended. They were around each other all the time, sure, but their conversations were short lived and shallow. It wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable, but it was worrying; Suna had no clue what was going on in Osamu’s head. He missed the bright eyed first year that forced him into conversations, laughing, loud, and overbearing. Osamu was himself outside of school, but what difference did it make? Break was over, most of their time was spent in the classroom now, where Osamu was apathetic at best.

“Is something bothering you?” Suna asked tentatively, looking over at Osamu to gauge his reaction.

Osamu shook his head. “Nah,” He said, expressionless and lacking any inflection. “Why?”

Suna frowned. “You’re not acting like yourself, I guess,” He explained. “Thought I’d check in, make sure you were okay. You’ve been so quiet lately.” It was weird, seeing Osamu like this. He’d always been quieter than Atsumu but only marginally, and he was usually as expressive, even if his feelings were more subdued. “You sure you’re good?”

“Oh,” Was all Osamu said at first, genuinely shocked, lips parted and brows raised— a crack in his aloof act. He looked like he expected to get away with this, like he thought changing his whole demeanor overnight would go unnoticed and unquestioned. “I’m fine, just tryin’ somethin’ out.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Suna questioned, squinting and leaning forward. He felt like their roles were switched; it always was him who was hard to read and Osamu who pressed for more, not the other way around.

Osamu shrugged. “It’s a bit hard to explain.”

“Try anyway.”

“Alright,” Osamu said, taking a bite of his bread and chewing thoughtfully for a moment. He swallowed, then continued. “Back in middle school, everybody hated ‘Tsumu, right? Even our teammates.” Suna wasn’t surprised. “I don’t know if he noticed, I don’t know if he cared, but I was always painfully aware of it. People would talk behind his back all the time, sometimes to my face, sayin’ how awful he was. Nobody ate lunch with us, nobody wanted to hang out, and I was basically his only friend.” He bit into his bread again. “I mean, we had Aran, but he went to a different school so we only saw him at trainin’ camps and shit. It sucked, and I decided I didn’t wanna be anythin’ like ‘Tsumu. Told him as much durin’ our third year.”

It was moments like these that made it glaringly obvious the twins were separate people. Suna always knew they had their own thoughts, feelings, and ambitions, but he still grouped them together in his head, considered them a package deal. For all their differences, they were the same breed of idiot, he thought. Maybe, though, that was foolish and short sighted. Individuality, the urge to stand out and be unique— this wasn’t lost on them because they looked the same. In fact, it was probably stronger in them than most. Being compared to Atsumu from birth probably left Osamu starving to be his own person. His colored contacts and grey hair proved as much.

“Anyway, we went out for dinner before school started, like we do every year. It’s kind of a tradition, I guess,” Osamu said. “It was fine, but Atsumu was bein’ rude to the waitstaff the whole time. Like, not horribly rude, but I still wanted to slap him for it, y’know?.” He finished his milk bread and licked the crumbs off his fingers. “When I went to the bathroom, I could hear a few waiters talkin’ ‘bout him, just like in middle school. They lumped me in with him too, called us the annoyin’ twins at table three.” He sighed. “It had me thinkin’ ‘bout my own behavior, and I realized I haven’t been doin’ a great job of bein’ nothin’ like ‘Tsumu. So, I decided to try harder and act a little different. Simple as that.”

Suna pulled a face, but he couldn’t deny any of Osamu’s logic, even if it rubbed him the wrong way. He liked it when Osamu was pushy and overbearing, when he was loud and bickered with his brother, charming and endearing. “Do what you want, as long as you’re happy,” He said finally. “I’m glad nothing’s wrong. You had me worried for a while.” Ultimately, how Osamu acted was Osamu’s choice; Suna had no say in it, could only support or disavow. What Suna liked didn’t matter if Osamu didn’t like himself. 

Osamu smiled. “Sorry ‘bout that,” He said. “Oh, I’ve been meanin’ to ask, what’s with the eyeliner and nail polish?”

“Just trying something out,” Suna mimicked smugly.

“I see how it is,” Osamu laughed. “It looks good, though. I like it.”

Suna smiled, face warm as the first bell rang.

  
  
  


Autumn rolled around, bringing with it crisp air and golden leaves. Suna realized he loved this Osamu, too. His quiet was comfortable, his calm a contrast to everyone else; each day, Suna’s crush grew. When Osamu showed rare glimpses of emotion, when he smiled or laughed, it made his stomach do flips.

At this point, loving Osamu was easy as breathing, a habit that came naturally and thoughtlessly. It was bubbly and ever present, impossible to ignore but rarely obtrusive. Some days, it was so effortless that it was hard to recall not loving him.

He was certain he’d love in all his forms, through all his changes, whoever he decided to be or grew to become. Suna was completely head over heels, in deeper than he knew the waters could go and planning to swim further still.

  
  
  


“Y’know, I think ‘s workin’,” Osamu said while they were heading home one day, completely unprompted. Atsumu was still at the gym, so it was just the two of them right now, biking at a leisurely pace. He hummed. “Actin’ different, I mean. More people are talkin’ to me now, sayin’ ‘m easier to approach than ‘Tsumu. I even got invited to a study group this weekend.”

“That’s good,” Suna said. “It’d suck if you overhauled your personality for nothing.” It was starting to cool down early this year, he noted, watching Osamu’s hair blow in the wind, scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. Suna always ran cold, and he’d probably have to start wearing gloves soon to keep from complaining.

“Girls are talkin’ to me more, too, ‘m getting twice as many confessions,” Osamu grinned, shifting gears as they started making their way downhill. “Learnin’ to shut up is actually payin’ off.”

Suna chuckled, though his expression was bittersweet and impassive. “Your brother should take notes,” He joked. “Plan on accepting any confessions?” 

Osamu shrugged, and Suna could feel the action under his fingertips, the slight sifting of shoulders and fabric. He gripped a bit tighter, unconsciously. “Maybe,” He said. “Dunno yet. Only if ‘s from somebody I like, I guess. I don’t wanna date for the sake of it if that makes sense. Feels wrong if ‘m not actually interested in her.”

“I get that,” Suna said. “It’d be weird if you were secretly a huge player.”

“I care too much about bein’ nice for that,” Osamu laughed.

Suna felt his chest tighten, but he knew it wasn’t Osamu’s problem nor his fault; he’d have to deal with this on his own. “Yeah,” He agreed. “You do.” 

Knowing it was his problem to deal with didn’t make it easier, though, and knowing Osamu was more popular than he used to be left Suna in painful anticipation, waiting for the other shoe to drop and, when it finally did drop, it still fucking hurt.

  
  
  


Osamu ran into the locker room with an uncharacteristic pep in his step a few days later, grinning from ear to ear, eyes sparkling and cheeks dusted pink. “Guess who got a date this weekend!” He beamed as he tossed his bag onto the bench, standing proudly. Nobody guessed; the answer was obvious, and Suna’s heart sank. This was expected, but he was still unprepared.

“With who?” Ginjima asked as he pulled his gym shirt on.

“Suzuki Ayano,” Osamu answered excitedly. “She’s a second year in class two. Black hair, pigtails, kinda short-”

“Oh, I’ve seen her around,” Ginjima said, cutting Osamu off mid-description. “She plays soft tennis, right? My friend on the team knows her. She’s really nice.”

“And she’s super cute!” Akagi chimed in. “Shy girls are the best.”

Aran smiled and gave a big thumbs up. “Nice! About time ya got a girlfriend, dude, ‘m surprised ya stayed single this long.”

“She’s not my girlfriend yet,” Osamu said quickly, blush worsening. “It’s just one date, not a big deal.”

“But she asked ya out, right?” Akagi nudged him in the side, a knowing smirk pulling at his lips. “That means she wants to be yer girlfriend. Seems like a huge deal to me.” Aran and Ginjima nodded in agreement.

Osamu’s face grew reddened, and he ran a hand through his hair, looking away. “Well, I mean, like- It’d be nice if she was, but-” He sputtered, tripping over his words. He was met with a chorus of laughs from his teammates as they circled around to tease him somewhat mercilessly, jabbing and congratulating in equal measure.

Suna had never seen him so flustered before. It was cute.

Something inside him ached.

He walked over, putting a hand on Osamu’s shoulder and smiling. “I’m happy for you,” He said, meaning it completely. Mentally, he was sulking in the corner with Atsumu, but he had more self control than that. If he was visibly jealous and upset, his words would mean nothing, and he wanted Osamu to feel supported.

“Have fun on yer date,” Kita said from over at his locker. “Don’t let her distract ya from practice, though, alright? Interhigh’s comin’ up.” 

Osamu nodded. “Don’t worry, Kita-san, I won’t.”

“Good. Now hurry y’all better hurry up and get changed. If we gotta start practice late ‘cause ya took too long, I’ll have ya run extra laps.”

Everybody nodded, and nobody dared object. Kita had always been intimidating but, now that he was captain, he was even scarier. Suna shuddered at the thought of extra laps as he stepped into his gym shorts.

  
  
  


After practice, Osamu waited by the door, but Suna waved him off. “What are you doing here?” He asked. “You should give Suzuki-san a ride home. Her practice ends at the same time as ours, right?” 

“But I always walk home with you and ‘Tsumu,” Osamu said, frowning slightly.

“Yeah, but you were single before,” Suna pointed out. “Now, you have her. Don’t you want to be a good boyfriend? Letting her ride with you would be romantic, like something out of a movie. Girls love that stuff.” Or, he loved that stuff, at least.

“I’m not her boyfriend-” Osamu tried to say, but Suna cut him off, laughing.

“Whatever you say, loverboy,” He hummed, turning to leave. Atsumu trailed behind him and stuck his tongue out at Osamu, glaring. “See you tomorrow.” 

Atsumu didn’t have bike pegs, so Suna had to actually walk. Neither of them spoke. Suna didn’t know Atsumu’s reason for bitterness over his brother dating, but at least the feeling was mutual.

  
  
  


His legs were tired and sore when he got home. Osamu spoiled him with bike rides; he forgot how long the walk actually was. After locking the front door, Suna trudged into his room and collapsed onto the bed, burying his face into a pillow and letting his frustration out in the form of a long, drawn out groan, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He laid there for an hour, unmoving. 

Like always, Suna turned to his poetry journal for emotional support. He moved to his desk when he finally worked up the nerve, scribbling down whatever came to mind and tossing the book to the side when he was satisfied. Maybe the poem wasn’t perfect, maybe it needed ten drafts instead of two, but his feelings were off his chest and tucked between pages now, meaning he could sleep soundly and without crying.

_I love you, sickeningly, more than I wanted to  
_ _Too earnest, too vulnerable, lacking tact and taste and anything good  
_ _To that point where I get nauseous, my stomach twisted, tangled, churning  
_ _Imagine sweaty hands and weak knees  
_ _Heaving shoulders, trembling back, shaking body  
_ _You’re in a room with a boy your age.  
_ _He’s in your class and on your team, in your house and on your bike.  
_ _His eyes flood with tears. You ask why. He stays silent.  
_ _Picture me on the floor, choking down sobs  
_ _You’re standing near me, but you’re too far away, too distant  
_ _The boy grabs your shirt and pulls you in close. Look at me,  
_ _You’re right fucking next to me, but I want more, impossibly, I don’t want any space, I want  
_ _To hold your hand, kiss your lips, touch your hair, arm, chest, back—  
_ _Your anywhere and everywhere, whatever you’ll give me, whatever I can take_

 _I love you, selfishly, more than I meant to  
_ _Too much, too vastly, overwhelming and oddly enough and hard to admit  
_ _I’ll tell you one day, let words formed from cowardice leave my lips shuttered and shaky  
_ _Imagine, for a second, you love me back  
_ _You’re standing under a camphor tree. The boy is there, too.  
_ _he hands you an envelope, gives a confession in neat writing on white paper.  
_ _No, you’re in the living room laying on the couch_ en raccourci _while he watches from the floor  
_ _You smile, we’re together, check yes and we’re boyfriends, Osamu  
_ _Picture me wrapping my arms around you and holding you tight  
_ _You hold me back and we’re hugging and nothing has ever felt this right  
_ _The boy laces his fingers with yours and smiles softly, sweetly  
_ _You squeeze his hand, and I’ve never loved anyone more than I do right now  
_ _I’m smitten and whipped and every other goddamn synonym for sick with it, I need  
_ _To crawl inside your chest, to live between your ribs and under your heart,  
_ _Unable to tell where I end and you begin, eyes closed and dozed off_

 _I love you, sadly, more than I ever should’ve  
_ _The boy tackles you to the floor and yells nonsense, face wet with tears  
_ _You’re in the gym, in a garage, at the park, on the front lawn, anywhere that’d hurt most  
_ _You’re bleeding, I’m bleeding, and we’ve never seen a bigger mess  
_ _All of this hurts so goddamn much. The boy is sick, sad, and dying.  
_ _I’m the boy, but this was obvious. You knew this. You’ve always known this.  
_ _I grip at your collar, and the fabric bunches in my hands. It’s soft. It’s your track jacket.  
_ _I’m hyperventilating, seething and upset, desperate, distraught, heartbroken  
_ _“Why did you teach me hunger?” I scream, “I never knew I could feel this till I met you!”  
_ _“Why did you curse me? Why don’t you love me? Why aren’t I happy?”  
_ _I shake you and you don’t respond because you’re not here  
_ _Again, you’re near me, but you’re too far away, too distant  
_ _Imagine sweaty hands and weak knees  
_ _Heaving shoulders, trembling back, shaking body  
_ _Picture me on the floor, choking down sobs  
_ _I’m alone in my room. You’re at your house. This is a poem, and I’m sorry._

  
  
  
  


Breathing was easier now. His head was quieter. After a long shower with water hotter than it needed to be, Suna flopped back onto his bed, passing out in a tangle of blankets. He dreamt of a world where Osamu loved him back, and he woke up miserable. 

When Monday came, Osamu wouldn’t stop talking about his date. It went perfectly, according to him, better than he thought it would. Suna wore a pained smile as he listened, nodding along on the walk to school as Osamu rattled off everything they did and everything about Suzuki he liked, how cute and funny she was, and how much he wanted to go on another date.

Nobody was surprised when he asked her out. Suna may or may not have cried himself to sleep when he did, but that wasn’t important. Thus were the trials and tribulations of being in love with his best friend. He should’ve been prepared.

  
  
  


Osamu being in a relationship only brought about minor changes: He walked her home after practice now, reserved weekends for dates, and seemed to be in a better mood overall, but that was about it. Sometimes Suzuki sat in on practice or watched games from the stands, but her presence wasn’t earth shattering or anything like that. It was hardly a huge deal, not nearly as catastrophic as it felt. Barely anything was different. Still, it hurt and, even after time passed, Suna felt his heart ache when he saw them together.

To make matters worse, they were a great couple, and she was a nice girl; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t resent her. She was hard to hate.

Suzuki was cute. She tied her hair into low pigtails, made stupid jokes and snorted when she laughed, ate almost as much food as Osamu did, and kept snacks in her backpack, too. Her glasses were round with red frames, freckles dotted her face, she wore scrunchy socks and a pink cardigan with her uniform, had a Sanrio phone case, and seemed perfect for Osamu. She was shy and athletic, sweet and kind in all the right ways, but she could still tease and take a joke, having a sense of humor that matched her boyfriend’s and grades just as poor.

They made each other happy. Suna was glad Osamu found somebody. It wasn’t him, but he was glad, and he was in pain.

  
  
  


At some point, Suzuki started eating with him and Osamu. Suna could barely handle it. Jealousy and sadness were awful feelings, and nothing could scrub the bitterness from his tongue, not even the food Osamu taught him to cook. He didn’t want to be so affected, but he couldn’t help it; some things were hard to suppress and, when bottled up, only festered, growing worse. 

“Here, Ayano-chan, I packed ya some lunch,” Osamu said, reaching into his bag and pulling out a second bento, placing it on the desk in front of her. “It’s better than the school food, promise.”

Suzuki smiled, blushing. “Thank you, ‘Samu-chan,” She said. Suna stuffed his face with chicken katsu to keep from cringing, sparing a glance at the lunch Osamu cooked.

It was almost disgustingly cute. The rice was shaped into little animals, the vegetables cut into cute shapes, and apple slices carved into rabbits. There was no doubting how much love and care went into it, and Suna was so envious he felt sick.

“Aw, you’re like a little house husband,” Suna teased instead of showing any malice or heartache, forcing the feeling down and shoving it aside for now. That was for later, not for the happy couple. Osamu didn’t deserve his heartache. “Your dad would be proud.”

“Shut up!” Osamu huffed, red in the face as Suzuki giggled and Suna chuckled.

  
  
  


Three days in, Suna couldn’t take it anymore. He’d die if he spent any more time around this couple. They were insufferable, cuter than they had any right to be, and it got worse by the second. He wanted to bash his head in. He could’ve gone his whole life not knowing Osamu was a sweet boyfriend, honestly, could’ve lived forever without knowing he liked to dote on and baby his partners. Now that he knew, he was even more in love, to a painful extent.

It felt like the universe was taunting him, dangling what he wanted in front of his face without letting him have it; saying it hurt was an understatement, especially since he had no clue where to direct the pain, not used to the feeling. 

Depression was commonplace, this was foreign. How was he supposed to do anything when Osamu was so sweet and his girlfriend was so nice? He was happy for them he was so happy for them he wanted to throw up. What could he do other than be miserably happy for them?

Suzuki was eating the bento Osamu packed her again but kept pausing to push hair out of her eyes and huffing when it fell back into place. 

“Are yer bangs botherin’ ya?” Osamu asked, frowning as he watched. 

“Yeah, they’re gettin’ a bit long,” Suzuki admitted with a nod. “I need to get a haircut, it keeps blockin’ my vision and givin’ me a headache.”

Osamu reached into his pocket and pulled out hair clips, the same ones he clipped Suna’s bangs back with each time they cooked. “Tilt yer head up for me, marshmallow,” He said gently, smiling when she did and carefully brushing her hair to the side, securing it in place with a barrette. He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead as he pulled away, blushing. “Yer so fuckin’ cute, ya know that?”

Suzuki blushing too, grinning as she poked Osamu’s nose. “Yer cuter!” She said. “The cutest boy in the whole school.”

Suna couldn’t keep from groaning, and he stood up, taking his lunch with him. This was the tipping point for him. It’s not like those hair clips were his and his alone— they were Osamu’s, stolen from his mom— but they were special to him, had special memories associated with them. Seeing Suzuki wear them felt wrong. “I feel like I’m third wheeling,” He said. “I’m eating with Atsumu.”

If Osamu objected or tried to get him to stay, Suna didn’t hear, already out the door and walking across the hall to Atsumu’s classroom.

***

 _“Have you ever been in love? Horrible, isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up this whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life… You give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you, or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase like "maybe we should just be friends" or "how very perceptive" turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.”  
_ _-Neil Gaiman, The Kindly Ones, 1999_

***

“I hate this,” Atsumu grumbled while they were eating the next day, head rested against his hand as he glared down at his bento. “Why does ‘Samu hafta have a girlfriend?”

“Jealous? You could have one too, you know,” Suna pointed out. “Just accept a confession. You get them almost every day.”

Atsumu frowned. “They wouldn’t confess if they actually knew me. When I accept em’, they break up with me before the weeks over. Apparently, ‘m annoyin’ or some shit,” He muttered. “It ain’t really about that, though. I ain’t jealous.”

“Then what’s it about?” Suna asked.

“Dunno. I miss him, I guess,” Atsumu said. He shot Suna a look. “Don’t tell him I said that.” He sighed then, deflating. “It’s just- Now that him an’ Suzuki are datin’, he’s never home on the weekend, and he’s always textin’ her or callin’ her, always talkin’ ‘bout her. It sucks. I miss when it was just us, when he wasn’t too busy to spend time with me.”

Suna agreed with the sentiment. Osamu was his closest friend; having the attention suddenly divided didn’t feel too great, and Atsumu probably felt worse, considering it was his brother he had to share. “That’s fair,” He said. “Let’s hang out without him, then. I can come over this weekend. We’ll watch movies or some shit, have some fun without him.”

Atsumu shrugged. “Sure. I’ll bully Aran into comin’ over too, so ‘s the three of us.”

  
  
  


Hanging out with Atsumu was a surprisingly nice distraction, and reading proved to be as good an outlet as any. Poetry, too. Osamu was around less and less, busy with Suzuki, but Suna filled the time well; something unexpected to come from heartbreak was getting into other forms of art. Before, he rarely sought out art for the sake of it, but in the wake of everything he felt compelled to. 

He found he liked impressionist paintings and slow, sweeping instrumentals. Other forms of visual art were nice as well, and he liked other genres of music as well, but these were his favorites. He’d never noticed nor appreciated them until now. Something about their soft melancholy spoke to him. 

The weekend before interhigh, Suna took the train to Kobe and visited the Hyogo Prefectural Museum of Art. The art on display was breathtaking, he thought. Festival Day in Paris by Yasui Sotaro was a personal favorite of his. 

In any other style, the scene might’ve looked cheerful, but the artist chose dark colors in gloomy hues, making it daunting to look at. Bold strokes and blocked in shapes gave the piece a foreboding atmosphere, and it was overwhelming in appearance, almost. Suna couldn’t describe it, but the painting stirred something within him, leaving a lingering impression that stuck longer than anything else, staying in his mind well into the ride home.

When he got back to town, he stopped by the corner store to buy a sketchbook. In his room, he drew stick figures and poorly proportioned portraits. They felt nice to make.

  
  
  


At nationals, Suna stayed on the court for most games, playing until the very end. He was a regular now, one of the team’s main canons. Nobody expected him to be on the court, either, not like Aran and the twins, so nobody was prepared. He was unknown, unexpected, and unstoppable.

Inarizaki didn’t win, but they made it exceptionally far, ranking second only to Itachiyama. At the end of the game, everyone was left panting, hugging, and crying. Suna gripped to Osamu’s shoulders like he never wanted to let go, relishing in the closeness.

Atsumu won best setter. Aran was named one of the top aces in the country. Next year, Inarizaki was to be reckoned with. 

When they went back into the hall, Suzuki was waiting. Finally, Suna let go of Osamu, watching with a smile as he hugged his girlfriend tight, pulling her in and spinning her around, laughing all the while. 

The ache hadn’t faded. His body was tired, weight barely held up by his bones. Sweat soaked his uniform. His heart wrenched. Breathing wasn’t easy. Still, he had his moment to shine and the strength to stand. 

They didn’t win, but they were victorious.

  
  
  


The bus ride to Hyogo was a cold one, and the driver refused to turn the heater up any higher. Suna shivered in his seat, thin sweatshirt not enough to keep warm. Before he could complain, Osamu lent him a black hoodie; the fabric was fuzzy and, endearingly, his initial was embroidered into the pocket. 

When they made it back, Suna tried to return it, but Osamu waved him off. _Keep it,_ he insisted, _ya look nice in black._

_You’re killing me here,_ Suna mumbled to no one in particular, too quiet for Osamu to hear. _Va te faire foutre._

At school, the team was welcomed with celebration by their peers, congratulations from their teachers, and another dinner at Kita’s place, just as delicious as the last. Suna enjoyed himself thoroughly this time, making conversation with his teammates and laughing along instead of passively observing. He was truly a part of things, seated between the twins and surrounded by people he liked. 

He returned to an empty house, which was expected but, this year, he waited until he was in his room to break down.

  
  
  


Fall became winter faster than expected. Trees were barren, the sky filled with dull clouds, and frost coated rooftops and grass alike. Suna could see his breath when they rode to school most mornings. It didn’t take long for him to start wearing a jacket underneath his coat each day and a pair of socks to bed each night.

At the start of the season, their homeroom teacher passed out career goal sheets. 

_These aren’t as serious as the post-graduation plan forms you’ll be filling when you’re third years,_ he assured, _but please take a minute to consider what you’d like to do in the future. It’ll make planning your career path easier next year._

Looking at the blank sheet was daunting. Suna was convinced he’d die before he grew up, so he never saw a need to plan for the future he didn’t expect to have. Now that he was told to place pen to paper and come up with an idea or two, he felt clueless, left staring at the page somewhat helplessly.

Was there anything he liked enough to do forever? Anything he was skilled enough at to make a living from? Nothing came to mind, and everybody else seemed to have an idea. 

In the end, Suna scribbled down ‘College’ and called it a day. He didn’t want to go to college, but his mom expected him to and his teacher wouldn’t bat an eye at the answer. If he didn’t have a plan, he could at least scrape by and act like he did.

  
  
  


“What’d you write on yours?” Suna asked once the bell rang, head tilted slightly as he glanced over at Osamu. He picked up his bag, ready to head to practice. “I’m assuming volleyball.”

“Nah,” Osamu said with a nonchalant shrug. “I’m goin’ into foodservice, set my mind to it a while back. I wanna own a restaurant someday.”

It was a shock, but it made sense, Suna thought. It was easy to picture Osamu doing something related to food. “You’d be a good fit for it,” He said, smiling. “So you’re quitting volleyball after high school, then?”

Osamu nodded. “Yeah, but ‘Tsumu doesn’t know, so don’t tell him, alright?”

“Alright, I won’t,” Suna said. “He’ll flip when he finds out, though.”

“That’s exactly why I haven’t told him yet,” Osamu laughed. “C’mon, let’s get going.”

  
  
  


Outside the classroom, an underclassman with curly brown hair stopped them, hands tucked into his jacket pockets and feet shuffling awkwardly. His cheeks were tinted pink. Suna had seen him around, but couldn’t recall his name. “C-Can I talk to you for a moment, Suna-san?” He asked, lower lip wobbling and voice soft, eyes averted.

“Of course,” Suna said, nodding. He shot Osamu a brief glance. “Sorry, but can you tell coach I’ll be late?”

Osamu grinned from ear to ear. “Sure! Just don’t get mad when he makes ya run extra laps,” He beamed and slapped Suna on the back when he turned to leave. “Good luck, man, see ya in a bit.” He winked and walked off.

“What did you want to talk about?” Suna asked, giving a small smile.

“Um, well, I just-” The underclassman stammered for a moment before pulling a letter out of his pocket and offering it to Suna, head bowed down. “I like you.” His voice cracked as he spoke.

Suna was no stranger to confessions. He wasn’t popular by any means, but he received a handful last year, and he’d gotten used to turning girls down politely. This, however, was different; He’d never received a confession from another guy before. He wasn’t sure how to react if he were being honest.

With two hands, he took the envelope offered to him and opened it carefully.

Sorry if this is weird or awkward (I’ve never written something like this before) but I have a huge crush on you, and I was wondering if you wanted to out with me?

I play trumpet in band, so I’m usually up in the stands during your games, and I think you’re super cool. Your eyeliner looks really nice, and you seem really laid back and confident but also nice and funny!  
And you’re ~~handsome beautiful hot~~ pretty, too, which is a plus. Not that I wouldn’t like you if you weren’t pretty. I’d have a crush on you either way. I think.

One of my friends told me you were gay, and I was really happy because I’m gay too! I mean, I’m closeted so nobody knows, but I think it’s cool that you’re so open about being gay.

Anyway, please date me? If you want? But don’t feel obligated to.

When he was done reading it over, Suna tucked the letter away in his bag, flattered. It was cute, really, and it made him happy. Knowing somebody liked him was a relief, as was knowing he came off as cool and confident in spite of everything. This guy seemed sweet, and Suna didn’t want to break his heart, but that didn’t mean he knew what he wanted.

“Sorry Atsumu made the band learn a Naruto opening,” He said instead of answering, chuckling lightly. “That’s gotta be a pain in the ass.”

“It’s not that bad, it was kinda fun to learn,” The underclassman said. “But, about my confession?”

Suna shrugged, apologetic and stiff. “I don’t know if I can accept it,” He admitted. “It feels a bit fast. We don’t know each other.”

“That’s fair, I understand-”

“We can still try, though. Let’s go on a date anyway,” Suna said quickly. “Just one, and we’ll figure it out from there.” He wasn’t necessarily attracted to this guy, but he felt compelled to give an answer other than no. Call him desperate, but he didn’t know any other gay men, and here was one that actually liked his sorry ass. The last thing he wanted was to miss an opportunity. He had a chance with this guy, and the same couldn’t be said for Osamu. “I’ll give you an answer after.”

The underclassman’s face lit up. “Really? Uh, thank you, let’s exchange phone numbers-” He pulled his phone out, fumbling with it for a moment.

“Sure,” Suna said, nodding somewhat stiffly. “Can I have your name for the contact?”

“You don’t know my name?”

“No,” Suna said, and he almost cringed. “We don’t know each other, and it wasn’t in the letter.”

“Right, right, sorry. I’m Ito Takaki. Nice to meet you.”

  
  
  


A few texts and a few days later, Suna found himself on the first train to Kobe, sitting next to Ito in silence. He wasn’t thrilled to be up this early on a Sunday, but it was the only time they were both free: Ito had cram school at night, Suna had morning practice on Saturdays, and they had club activities during the week. This limited their schedules greatly. 

So, somewhat begrudgingly and incredibly reluctantly, Suna woke up before the sun to meet Ito at the station. He wore a thick black coat over a white button-up, dark jeans, winter boots, fluffy earmuffs, and a grey scarf around his neck to keep warm.

Ito was wearing a baggy hoodie and denim jacket with a knit hat pulled over his head. His hair poked out the edges, framing his face messily, and Suna couldn’t deny that he was, objectively, at least a little attractive. There was a boyish cute charm to him and an excited sparkle in his hooded black eyes. He kicked his feet back and forth underneath his chair, fidgeting with his phone charm. 

He seemed too nervous to make conversation, and Suna was too tired to try, so the only sound was the train car rattling, whatever idle chatter other riders were making, and an occasional yawn.

Outside the window, they watched the sun rise over the snow covered countryside.

  
  
  


Today’s date was one they planned together, and their first stop was only a few blocks from the station: A small, hole-in-the-wall café with no visible name. Suna had never seen it before but, judging from the outside, it was a nice place. There wasn’t much in the way of decor, but it was clean and had a row of well maintained potted plants on the window sill, boasting simple elegance. The open sign was hand carved from wood, which Suna thought was a nice touch. 

There were only enough seats for about eight people on the inside, but it was cozy and comfortable, with more plants littered about. The lights were warm and yellow, vintage movie posters lined the walls, and there was something almost nostalgic about it. Suna smiled as he sat down, waiting for Ito to order their drinks. He watched from a distance as the barista smiled and laughed, seeming both bubbly and polite.

After a few minutes, Ito returned to the table, two cups in hand. He held one out for Suna. “Your cinnamon dolce latte,” He said, taking a seat across from him.

“Thanks.” Suna took the lid off and blew on the drink. “It’s got an extra shot of espresso, right?”

Ito nodded. “Yep, and extra sugar, too.” 

“Perfect,” Suna said. Once the coffee was cool enough, he took a sip, pleased by how good it was. The drink was sweet enough to overshadow the bitter taste of coffee, which was exactly how he liked it; the whipped cream and cinnamon were nice as well. He hummed, content. “The staff here seems nice,” He commented.

“Yeah, probably ‘cause they know my sister.”

“They do?”

Ito took a sip of his hot chocolate. “She goes to design school in the area and takes me here when I visit or have band competitions and stuff,” He explained. “I guess she’s a regular or something.” He looked away then, shrugging awkwardly, shoulders tense. “I dunno.”

Suna smirked. “You don’t know?” He teased lightheartedly. 

“Well, I mean, I _do_ know, it’s just-” Ito stammered quickly, fidgeting with the cup in his hands. “Sorry.” He visibly deflated, staring at his lap. “I-I’ve never been on a date before, so I’m kind of nervous, and-” He cut himself off, biting his lip. “I’m sorry.”

Suna was used to poking fun at the twins, so he was ill equipped to deal with Ito’s sensitive nature. He felt bad for setting off his nerves, but he had no clue what to do about it. “Woah, you don’t have to apologize, it’s alright,” He assured. “I haven’t been on a date before either.”

Ito was surprised by this, visibly taken aback. “Really?”

“Really,” Suna said. “Who would I date? It’s not like there are a ton of gay guys at our school.” He paused to take another sip of his coffee before continuing. “Or, well, not any that aren’t closeted. You’re the first guy to confess to me.”

“Huh. For some reason I thought you were, like, super popular or something,” Ito admitted.

“I only have two friends.”

“Oh.”

It was quiet after that, the awkwardness palpable. Suna felt like crawling into a hole and was fairly certain the feeling was mutual. Thankfully, they started talking again within a few minutes, but the conversation was stunted and never found flow, often pausing abruptly or being painfully shallow.

  
  
  


The stilted conversation continued until they were done with their drinks and well into the walk to the Yokoo Tadanori Museum of Contemporary Art, their next stop. Suna chose this place and, while it was a bit out of the way, it didn’t take too horribly long for them to be surrounded by bright, colorful, and at times incomprehensible paintings and prints. 

The two of them stood together in front of a piece depicting a woman with toilet paper on her face.

“I’ve been meaning to check this place out for a while now,” Suna said. “I got into art recently, and I read some nice things about Yokoo’s work. Figured I’d take a look. It’s pretty cool, right?” He grinned and pointed at the toilet paper. “Definitely unique.”

“Yeah,” Ito agreed, pausing for a moment then adding: “I don’t really get it, though.”

“Neither do I,” Suna admitted with a laugh, “But I like it.” He hummed, leaning forward slightly to get closer to the painting, appreciating the details and individual brush strokes. “I don’t think you need to understand art to appreciate it. Sometimes looking at it and feeling something is enough.” He glanced down at Ito. “Besides, contemporary art is always hard to get. I’m convinced that’s the point.”

“Sounds like you know a lot about this,” Ito observed.

“No, not really. All I know is that art makes me happy, even when I don’t understand it. I couldn’t tell you anything else.”

“Do you draw?” Ito asked. 

“Sometimes, but I kinda suck, so it’s only for fun. I’m better at writing poems, but I’m still not great at that.”

“Can I read some of them?”

Briefly, Suna thought about his poetry journal. He considered all the poems about Osamu and the pages where he wrote the same sentence over and over until his wrist hurt. He considered the face Ito might make if he saw all that. “No, they’re kind of personal, sorry.”

“I get that,” Ito said. “I, uh, really like jazz, and I write music in my spare time, y’know? But, I’d rather die than play it for anyone. I’m not very good.”

“You don’t have to be good.”

“My sister tells me that, too. She’s always picking up new hobbies, always trying new things. She says being good or bad isn’t what matters with art, that it’s about making things and having fun,” Ito explained. “She lectures me when I complain about being worse than the other trumpets in band, so I’ve kinda got her spiel memorized by now.” He chuckled softly, fiddling with the hem of his jacket. 

“Your sister’s right,” Suna hummed. “She sounds cool.”

“She is.”

After that, their conversations were a bit less forced, and they were able to talk without falling into awkward silences. They stared at the toilet paper faced lady for a bit longer, then wandered around other parts of the museum. Suna liked most of what was on display. He was particularly inspired by Yokoo’s use of color and how he drew attention to parts of life usually swept under the rug. His works were a far cry from the paintings Suna normally enjoyed, but they were nice nonetheless. He made a mental note to come back sometime. 

  
  
  


When they left the museum, they walked around the streets of Kobe for a little while longer, aimlessly exploring shops and stopping at a park to sit beneath a dying maple tree, quiet and tranquil. It started to snow, and they took the train back home, talking this time. They shared thoughts on art, writing, and music, voices hushed as to not disrupt the other passengers.

At the station, Ito turned to Suna. “Thanks for today, I had a lot of fun,” He said softly, staring at the concrete.

“Me too,” Suna said. He knew he had to give his answer now, but he still hesitated, biting his lip. “I don’t think I can accept your confession,” He said finally. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re really sweet, and the date wasn’t bad or anything, it’s just-”

“You like someone else?”

Suna nodded. “Yeah,” He said, a bit breathlessly. He frowned. “How did you know?”

“You were making this face when we were looking at the paintings. It’s kind of hard to describe, but it’s soft and fond and you were smiling but, like, barely. It was subtle,” Ito explained, shuffling his feet. “I-I didn’t recognize it at first, but then I realized it’s the same face you made when you were looking at your friend.” He gestured with shaking hands, nervous. “The one with the grey hair.”

“Osamu,” Suna whispered. “Is it that obvious?”

Ito shook his head. “Not really. I didn’t put two and two together until the museum.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Ito said. “It’s not your fault, and I built you up in my head, anyway. We wouldn’t have worked out. We were both kind of forcing it.”

“We can still be friends if you want. We have a lot in common.”

“I’d like that,” Ito said. “I’ll need some space first, so not right away. Being just friends hurts when you wanted more, y’know? I don’t think I’m entitled to your feelings or anything, but I’ll still need to get over you, I’ll need time and-”

“I understand, don’t worry. It really does hurt.” They shared a sad smile, both knowing the pain of your crush liking somebody else. “Just, text me when you want to hang out again, okay?”

Ito nodded. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you around, Ito-kun.”

“You too, Suna-san. Get home safe.”

They stood there for a beat too long then, stiffly, waved goodbye and parted ways. Suna was disappointed it didn’t work out despite knowing it wouldn’t. He wasn’t attracted to Ito, and that was that; being in a relationship would’ve been nice, especially if it lessened the pain of loving Osamu, but that wasn’t a reason to get into one— It was a recipe for disaster. 

At home, Suna changed into the pizza stained pajamas Osamu gave him, pulled the black hoodie on over them, and laid down on his bed, pretending the clothes could love him back and making believe that they were warm around his body. 

He wondered if he should have some space, too, wondered if he should take time to get over himself. 

  
  
  


Those thoughts were quickly abandoned the next day when Osamu knocked on his front door, smiling and waving, brighter than the rising sun. “Morning,” Suna said, stepping out onto the front porch. He raised a brow at Atsumu’s absence, struck by déjà vu. “Is the headache sick again?”

Osamu laughed. “Nah, ‘Tsumu’s at youth camp, remember? He was invited to All Japan.”

“I guess I’ve gotten good at tuning him out,” Suna snorted. “I don’t remember that at all.”

“Lucky. He wouldn’t quit braggin’ ‘bout it last week,” Osamu said as he climbed onto his bike, waiting for Suna to hop on before pedaling down the road, breath clouding in the cold air. “How was yer date yesterday?” He asked. 

Suna shrugged. “Fine, but we’re better off as friends.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that. Sometimes things don’t work out,” Osamu said. “Did ya have a good time at least?”

“Yeah, it was nice.” They fell into comfortable silence for a bit, and Suna closed his eyes, feeling the winter breeze flow through his hair. Being just friends with Osamu hurt, he wouldn’t deny that, but it was worth it; he valued their friendship above all else, he realized. Mornings like these were far too important to him to take a step back or keep his space.

“The cherry blossoms are gonna start bloomin’ before ya know it,” Osamu commented as they rode under a cherry tree. “Do ya wanna go see em’ together? With ‘Tsumu? I could pack us some lunch, it’d be fun.”

Suna rolled his eyes, flicking the back of Osamu’s head. “That’s the kind of thing you do with your girlfriend, idiot,” He said. “Take her out to see them instead, to celebrate your win at nationals. It’ll be romantic.”

“If ya keep flickin’ me I’ll crash the bike,” Osamu threatened. “But, yer right, Ayano-chan would like that. Guess ‘m just used to spendin’ all my time with you two.”

“That’s because you’re a loser.”

“Y’know, for some reason I thought ‘Tsumu bein’ gone would mean goin’ a whole week without bein’ made fun of.”

Suna stuck his tongue out. “It means I have to do it twice as much, actually. Can’t have your ego getting too big, can we?”

“Tsumu’s the one with a big ego.”

“And I’m making sure it stays that way.”

  
  
  


Atsumu’s absence meant a lot of things— namely eating alone and being freed from his criticism on the court— but, much to Suna’s dismay, it didn’t make practice any less exhausting. Interhigh was fastly approaching, so their spike, receive, and serve drills were growing in length and intensity accordingly. They dragged on longer each day, and Suna was convinced his arms would fall off if they kept going like this. He knew preparing for nationals was important but, still, he was tired. 

He planned on walking home alone this week but was surprised to see Osamu waiting outside the locker room for him, grinning and leaning against the doorframe. “Ayano-chan’s busy today, so I ain’t walkin’ her home,” He said. “Wanna come over and study? ‘Tsumu’s gone so we’ll be able to get shit done.”

“Sure,” Suna said, “But I’ll leave if you complain.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Osamu assured, waving a hand dismissively as they walked over to the bike racks. “When have I ever complained?”

  
  
  


The ride to Osamu’s house was short and sweet. While Suna settled himself at the kitchen table, laying their books and notes out neatly, Osamu grabbed snacks. He tossed an almost absurd amount of junked food onto the table when he returned, covering half of everything in the process. “Here,” He said as he sat down across from, grabbing and opening a bag of chips, already stuffing his face. 

Suna squinted. He knew Osamu’s appetite was large, but this was too much, even for him. “Why so many snacks?” He asked wryly, eyeing the pile. “We’re only going over a few chapters, we don’t need an all you can eat buffet. It’s not gonna take that long.”

“They’re ‘Tsumu’s,” Osamu explained through a mouthful of food. “The bastard ate my pudding before he left, so ‘m gettin’ revenge.” He tossed a box of Pocky in Suna’s direction. “Eat up, we gotta make sure every last crumb is gone when he gets back.

Suna opened it, snickering. “Pretty sure this keeps you from being the nicer twin,” He mused. “Never took you as the petty type.”

“Pretty sure he had it comin’, so it ain’t really petty, not if ya think about it.”

“If you say so.” Suna rolled his eyes. “You can do what you want, but I’m not patching you up when he kicks your ass for this, alright?”

Osamu scoffed. “He’ll be the one needin’ first aid.”

“Well, I won’t help him either. I don’t feel like getting caught up in your bullshit,” Suna said like he wasn’t already two years deep into their combined idiocy. He grabbed his textbook and flipped it open to the current chapter. “Let’s actually study. There’s a test tomorrow, and I don’t feel like failing.”

“We have a test?”

“You’re hopeless,” Suna said, smiling fondly.

  
  
  


The study session was Osamu’s idea to begin with, but he spent most of it complaining, cheeks puffed out as he made it clear how little he understood. He paid more attention to Atsumu’s snacks than anything else, and he whined every time he inevitably failed to grasp the material, blaming the textbook itself instead for some reason.

Suna, for all his claims to the contrary, stayed anyway. He would’ve gotten more done if he went straight home or studied alone in the library, but that wouldn’t be nearly as fun; it’d been a while since he and Osamu last hung out alone, and he missed this, definitely. The snacks and smiles here were more important than actually reviewing their work.

It only took them two hours of studying to give up and watch a movie instead. Unsurprisingly, they were both handed back failing grades a few days later.

  
  
  


Atsumu was back by Monday, pulling Suna into a tight hug first thing in the morning and excitedly rambling about Tokyo the whole ride to school. Like always, he was loud and incapable of shutting up, but Suna couldn’t help thinking this was a bit ridiculous; almost a full week had passed now, and Atsumu was still talking nonstop about camp.

He was happy for Atsumu, don’t get him wrong, but Suna could only listen to so much mindless chatter about Itachiyama’s ace before his ears started to bleed. It was to the point where he considered eating with Osamu and his girlfriend again for a moment of peace.

  
  
  


On Friday, Suna walked into the gym later than usual, raising his brows in mild surprise when he saw the twins sitting in silence, turned away from each other and making the same stubborn faces they always did before fights. Atsumu was filing his nails and Osamu was taping his fingers, but the tension was palpable. 

“Okay, what set the twins off this time?” Suna asked, gesturing in their direction and glancing at Ginjima. 

“Apparently it’s official now,” He supplied with a shrug. “Osamu’s done with volleyball after high school.”

“Ah, that,” Suna said, recalling his conversation with Osamu a few weeks prior. He’d been right on the money when he said the news would make Atsumu flip, and he decided to stay put and watch this play out.

As soon as Osamu finished taping his fingers, he stood, towering over his brother. “I made up my mind a long time ago,” He explained, continuing a conversation Suna must’ve missed. “I told myself I was gonna get a job dealin’ with food and foodservice, and that was that.” He took a step closer to Atsumu, filled to the brim with barely restrained rage. “Who says the one that sticks with volleyball is the more successful one by default, huh? I didn’t pick this career outta some kinda compromise or ‘cause I didn’t think I could make it.”

Suna couldn’t see it, but Atsumu must’ve made a face or done something to provoke his brother because Osamu was on him in an instant, seizing him by the collar and shaking him. “If yer so damn confident, so damn sure you’ll be the happier one, then come back when we’re eighty year old geezers!” He snapped. “Wait until then to laugh in my face and say you were happier!”

Atsumu glared up at him, teeth gnashing. “Okay then, if that’s the way ya wanna do it, yer on,” He seethed, grabbing Osamu back, hands flying up to his neck and gripping tightly to his jacket. He took a deep breath before raising his voice and shouting: “When we’re on our deathbeds, I’m gonna turn and look you right in yer face and say I had the happier life!”

The sudden increase in volume made Suna flinch. His hands flew up to his ears, and he shot Ginjima another glance, slightly worried this time but trying to appear unbothered. “Should I get Kita-san?”

“Nah, they’re fine,” Ginjima said, “But ya might wanna break em’ up before he gets back, yeah?”

Suna nodded. He walked over to the twins and, carefully, inserted himself between them as much as he could manage— which was to say, barely at all. He grabbed Atsumu’s wrist and tried to pry him off Osamu. “Knock it off, drama queens, we have to start practice,” He hissed, mustering a glare.

The twins were too caught up in their argument to pay him any mind. They carried on like he wasn’t there, like his heart wasn’t beating rapidly, adrenaline pumping as panic slowly welled up inside him.

“Good luck with that,” Osamu laughed, dry and bitter. “All ya got is volleyball, ‘Tsumu, nobody likes you.”

“At least I have volleyball, at least I ain’t givin’ up!.”

“I ain’t givin’ up! I’m playin’ till the end of our third year and _quittin’_ after that, were ya not listenin’?”

“Bullshit yer not givin’ up!” Atsumu scoffed. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed ya slackin’ off lately. Look me in the eyes and tell me yer not givin’ up, ‘Samu, any player worth their salt can tell yer bein’ a scrub! When was the last time ya stayed after practice? When was the last time ya even tried?”

“How would you know if I’m slackin’? Last I checked you were too busy fussin’ over yer serves and fuckin’ off to camp with yer Tokyo boyfriend to notice shit about anyone.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

“Right, yer _crush_ ,” Osamu corrected, mocking. A wide, sardonic smirk pulled at his lips. “Nobody in their right mind would date yer sorry ass.”

Suna tugged at Atsumu again, harder this time. “Guys, stop.”

“Why can’t I make a friend without ya makin’ fun of me?” Atsumu snarled, ignoring Suna. “Y’all are always jumpin’ at the chance to bully me. I meet one person I wanna talk about, and suddenly ‘s free grounds to laugh at my expense.” He glowered, chest heaving with each deep, angered breath. “Yer always pullin’ this shit! I hafta sit and watch ya get more friends than me, get more popular, get a girlfriend, and now yer gonna up an’ leave me, too? Do ya expect me to stand by and while ya abandon me? What kinda bitch do ya take me for-”

“Quit bein’ so goddamn dramatic!” Osamu jeered, trying to push Atsumu away. “I ain’t abandonin’ ya, why are ya actin’ like we’re never gonna see each other again? Why is me wantin’ to be my own person hurtin’ ya so bad? It’s just volleyball, ‘Tsumu, you were the one that wanted to play in the first place, not me.”

“Well yer the one who played with me anyway!” Atsumu yelled. 

_“Guys-”_ Suna tried, borderline pleading. He was silenced by Atsumu suddenly and violently shoving him aside, sending him toppling onto the gym floor with a loud thud. Pain flared up in his lower back, and he stared up at the twins with wide eyes, stunned, as if he were watching a car crash slowly unfold.

Osamu fumed, red in the face. “Why’d ya do that to Suna?!”

“Why do ya care?” Atsumu shot back. “Made ‘cause I shoved yer _crush_ away? Made ‘cause ya wanna swap spit with him ‘stead of yer girlfriend? M-” 

Osamu cut him off by tackling him to the ground at full force. “Take that back!” He demanded, the loudest Suna ever heard him. Atsumu tried to kick him off, but Osamu was having none of it; He lifted him by the shoulders and slammed his head into the ground over and over, pinning him down with his knee. “What the fuck is wrong with ya? Don’t drag Suna into this, it ain’t about him!”

With great effort, Atsumu flipped them over so he was on top. “Doesn’t feel too great when people make fun of ya for havin’ friends, does it?” He taunted.

Before Atsumu could get another word in, Osamu threw the first punch, effectively shutting his brother up.

  
  
  


In the end, they had to get Kita to separate them. With Aran’s help, he pried them apart and called off practice for everyone involved. He dragged Atsumu off kicking and screaming, and Suna could only imagine the lecture in store for the twins once this blew over.

  
  
  


“Thought ya said ya wouldn’t patch me up,” Osamu teased afterwards as Suna pressed an ice pack to his shoulder. He inhaled sharply and cursed under his breath, eyes squeezed shut.

The two of them were sitting in the infirmary with the lights off. Outside, the sun set slowly through the window, basking them in trace amounts of gold. It was quiet. The only sound outside of them was the low thrum of the radiator.

Suna pursed his lips. “This is only because the nurse is out,” He said, holding the ice in place carefully. “I forgot she doesn’t stay after hours. Next time Atsumu kicks your ass, I won’t help.”

“He didn’t kick my ass,” Osamu said, rolling his eyes. He yelped when Suna pushed down harder. “Hey! What was that for?” Suna snickered, easing up. “Yer the worst of all of us, I swear. Tsumu’s more banged up than I am and you know it.”

“Yeah, he is,” Suna snorted.

They settled into comfortable silence after that. Suna took his time icing Osamu’s bruises and bandaging the few areas with blood, making sure to be gentle. The twins were no strangers to scuffles and fistfights, but this was the worst in recent memory. He wondered how long it’d take them to make up again. He hoped it wouldn’t get in the way of nationals.

“I’m sorry,” Osamu mumbled eventually, barely audible.

Suna shook his head. “Don’t be. You didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, but ‘Tsumu shoved ya, and what he said was-”

“It’s fine, really,” Suna insisted, smoothing out the last bandage. He pulled away. “Why’d you tell him now, anyway? You should’ve waited.”

“I wanted to wait, but his teacher let it slip, apparently,” Osamu explained. “Pulled him aside and asked if he was gonna quit volleyball too, told him to choose a more stable career and be responsible like me or some shit.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it. He probably thinks you were going to hide it until graduation.”

Osamu groaned. “He’s so overdramatic.”

“He is,” Suna agreed, “But he’s hurt, too, so you should probably talk to him about this once you’ve both calmed down. Let him know you’re not abandoning him.”

“Tsumu and I don’t really talk ‘bout stuff,” Osamu said, frowning.

“Maybe that’s why you fight so much,” Suna pointed out.

“I hate that you’re right.”

“Look, you guys don’t even have to apologize, but you should at least sit down and have a conversation,” Suna said. “Nothing will get better if you don’t talk to each other. You shouldn’t need me to tell you this.”

Osamu hesitated but eventually conceded, sighing. “Fine, whatever.”

Suna smiled, patting him on the head almost condescendingly. “There we go. Now, let’s walk home, you owe me snacks.”

“What?” Osamu gawked. “Why?”

“It's payment for medical services.”

“If I knew there was gonna be a fee I woulda done it myself.”

“Too bad, so sad, buy me some chuupet,” Suna laughed, grabbing their bags and walking towards the door, holding it open for Osamu. “I’ll carry your stuff for you too, since you’re injured and all.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

  
  
  


It took a bit, but the twins were on speaking terms soon enough and doing fine by nationals. Their injuries were fully healed and their relationship was in good standing once more. Suna had no way of knowing whether or not they talked things out, but he figured they must’ve— either that or they had a temporary truce for the duration of interhigh.

The last week of grueling practice passed in no time, and the entire team shuffled onto a bus to Tokyo; Suna sat with Osamu, and Atsumu and Kita sat in the seat next to theirs. It was a seven and a half hour ride, so most people spent it sleeping, but Suna was filled with too much nervous anticipation to do that. Instead, he used this as a chance to finally listen to the jazz artists Ito recommended.

  
  
  


“I ain’t gonna apologize for shovin’ ya,” Atsumu announced completely unprompted four hours into the trip. They were the only ones awake at the moment, and he kept his voice hushed, just above a whisper.

Suna took one of his earbuds out and looked at him from across the aisle. “Don’t,” He said. “You probably should, but it’d be weird.”

“Yeah, it would be,” Atsumu agreed, humming. “I didn’t even apologize to ‘Samu.”

“Is that really something to brag about?”

Atsumu floundered. “I’m not braggin’,” He insisted, “Just sayin’.”

Suna raised a brow. “That all?”

“No, that’s not-” Atsumu pinched the bridge of his nose, making an exasperated noise. “Look, this ain’t exactly easy, but ‘m tryin’ to tell ya that shovin’ ya around and sayin’ that shit about ya wasn’t okay and I just- I-” He buried his head in his hands. “Wanted to let ya know that I feel bad.”

“This is basically an apology,” Suna pointed out.

“Not if I don’t say sorry.”

“Whatever you say,” Suna snorted. “Don’t worry about it, I’m not mad.”

Atsumu smiled at him. He turned away for a moment to reach into his bag, and he rummaged around for a bit before pulling out two of the sports drinks he packed. “Here,” He said, passing one to Suna.

“Thanks,” Suna said as he screwed the cap open.

“A toast,” Atsumu beamed, raising his bottle in the air. “To winning nationals. We’re gonna have so much fun that ‘Samu will wonder why he ever wanted to quit!”

Suna rolled his eyes and tapped his drink against Atsumu’s, taking a sip afterward. “He already wants to win, you know. He’s got a victory date planned with Suzuki and everything.”

“Good,” Atsumu said. “You wanna win too, right?”

Suna nodded, grinning. “Yeah, I do.”

“That’s what I thought.”

  
  
  


When the time for their first match finally came, they entered the gym with their heads held high, expecting victory. They were the second seed this time around, had a strong band and cheer squad supporting them, spent hours upon hours preparing, and were up against a no-name school. Everybody felt confident, Suna included. It was the first time he felt so sure of himself in recent memory.

  
  
  


They lost to Karasuno.

  
  
  


Any hope riding on their victory shattered in an instant, pierced by thirty-two points and a final buzzer. The loss was crushing. Shamefully, the team packed their bags and rode home; seven and a half hours of silence loomed heavy, weighing their bodies down in their seats. Nobody spoke. Nobody smiled. They were all too busy stewing it over, looping losing plays in their minds over and over.

Their cheer squad insisted it was a good game. The coach was adamant it would help them grow. Still, it was hard to be optimistic— even Kita, stability incarnate, felt frustrated. There was no shortage of tears or regret as they mourned their loss. After this, the third years would leave, the captain title would change hands, and the team would never be the same again. Thus was inevitable and how it always went, but an endnote like this seemed to be the worst sendoff possible. 

Suna had arguably the least riding on their win. His spot as a regular was secure, he wasn’t graduating, he didn’t need to impress a brother or woo a date, and volleyball was only ever meant to be a hobby. Win or lose, it didn’t matter, he didn’t have to care. That’s what he told himself and that much was still true. So, why then, did it hurt so fucking badly? Why was there an ache in his chest that refused to leave? Why was it hard to breathe?

He returned to an empty house and a note on the table reprimanding him for poor grades. This, unfortunately, was a tipping point and catalyst for something worse. Disappointment grew into something sinking and hollow. He felt empty. Everything was awful. There was no hope for anything. If he were to reach into his chest, there’d be nothing but cold blood and void, none of those warm and happy things his friends were full of.

Suna turned off the lights, collapsed onto his head, and cried for three hours straight. Depression, it seemed, was his default response to any pain. His brain was out to get him. Why did losing feel like dying? Why did one little note break him? Why was he like this? He sobbed, heaving over his pillow and struggling to breathe, fingers clawing at his bedsheets as tears rolled down his cheeks and snot dripped from his nose. He felt pathetic.

The next day, he skipped school. He’d been doing well in spite of everything, but he couldn’t take it anymore. What was the point? Why bother going? So he can fail another test? See Osamu with his girlfriend? Work himself to the bone at practice only to fail all over again? Yeah, right, spare him the trouble. Suna was fine here, leaving his bed a few times to piss and eat and nothing else. 

Before he knew it, two weeks passed.

  
  
  


Tuesday afternoon, Suna woke from a dreamless sleep to a series of loud, persistent knocks. For a moment, he tried ignoring them, but the sound was sandpaper to his ears and showed no signs of stopping. Begrudgingly, he crawled out of bed and trudged his way to the front door, lethargic, drained, and barely cognizant. He slumped against the frame as he swung open the door, yawning, dressed in Osamu’s pajamas with greasy, unwashed hair and bags under his eyes. It’d been a bit since he showered or brushed his hair. 

Simply put, he looked like pure shit.

Osamu and Kita were standing on the doorstep, smiling and carrying backpacks. Suna stared at them, dumbfounded and squinting slightly from the sunlight. His eyes hurt. He wanted to go back to his room.

“Hey,” Suna greeted dryly.

“Yo,” Osamu said, giving a wave. 

Kita bowed his head politely. “Mind if we come in?”

“I don’t have the energy to hang out right now, sorry,” Suna muttered. He hunched his shoulders, head ducked down. “I’m kinda having a bad day.” Understatement of the year, honestly. 

“Oh, no, we ain’t here to hang out. We’re here to help,” Osamu explained, gesturing with one hand and raising his bag with the other like that explained anything.

Suna frowned. “With what?” He asked before quickly adding: “I don’t need help.” Because, really, he didn’t. Everything felt overwhelming lately, but they couldn’t fix that. This pain was his sort out, no one else’s. 

“Bullshit ya don’t,” Osamu said. A frown tugged at his lips, and his eyes shimmered with concern, the depths of which overwhelmed and almost sickened Suna. “It’s been ages since ya showed up to school-”

“I don’t need _pity_ either,” Suna cut him off, taking a step back. He didn’t like being looked at like some sort of charity case or tragic fuck up. It made him feel weak. And, he might’ve been weak, too, but he didn’t need a reminder and didn’t want to admit it. His weakness was an unspoken truth kept locked up tight in his chest with everything else he hated thinking about.

“This is compassion, not pity,” Kita corrected, voice gentle yet firm. “Ya don’t gotta let us in, but we’re awful worried ‘bout ya, Suna-san. All we wanna do is lend a hand.”

Osamu nodded in agreement. “We’ll leave if ya want, but you’ve been strugglin’ lately, right? Y’know, havin’ a long few days or a rough week or whatever.” He shrugged. “We’re just tryin’ to support ya.”

Suna felt bad for making them worry, and he felt awful for needing help. Worst of all, he felt unable to close the door and shut them out. Reluctant as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to say no. “Whatever,” He sighed, stepping aside so they could enter.

Osamu and Kita walked in and slipped their shoes off at the genkan, mumbling _pardon the intrusion_ while Suna shut the door. 

“Go ahead and get to work in the kitchen,” Kita told Osamu before turning to Suna, smiling softly. “Where’s yer room?” He asked.

“Uh, down the hall, first door on the left,” Suna answered, pointing towards it. Kita nodded and started walking over to the door. Suna faltered. “I-It’s kind of a mess,” He started to stutter, but Kita only laughed lightly, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry,” He said, unzipping the bag he brought and pulling out a pair of latex gloves. “That’s why ‘m here.”

  
  
  
  


Suna sat on his bed with his knees tucked against his chest a little while later, watching Kita clean his room. It wasn’t normally this much of a mess, but things had gotten out of hand; snack wrappers, dirty clothes, and half read books littered the floor. Trash was overflowing from the waste bin, too, and there was a steadily growing collection of unwashed mugs and crumpled papers covering his desk. He’d been too drained lately to tidy up, but he felt guilty for that now.

“Why are you doing this?” He asked quietly, voice only slightly louder than a mumble.

“‘Cause I care,” Kita said. “Ain’t that reason enough?”

“I guess,” Suna said, shrugging halfheartedly. “It feels weird, though. You’re going to all this trouble for me, and we’re not even friends. I don’t understand.” He sighed. “You’re too nice, I don’t get it. What have I done to deserve this?”

Kita hummed as he picked up handfuls of trash, tossing them into a bag. “Ya don’t gotta do anythin’ to deserve help, Suna-san, just needin’ it is enough,” He explained, glancing at him. “And what makes ya think we’re not friends?”

Suna blinked. “I-” He started opening and closing his mouth like an idiot, at a loss for words. “I don’t know, I just wasn’t sure,” He admitted, running a hand through his hair and looking away, worrying at his lip. “I didn’t know and didn’t wanna assume-”

“The whole team considers you a friend, myself included,” Kita told him.

“Really?” Suna asked, disbelieving. He didn’t feel worthy. He felt like he’d done nothing to make anyone think positively of him, let alone see him as a friend.

Kita nodded. “Yep. With all the time we spend practicin’ together ‘s hard not to.”

“Oh,” Suna said. He paused for a few beats, brows knitted together and forehead creasing. Kita kept picking things up, sorting clothes into piles, and tucking random odds and ends away. “You still didn’t need to come over, though. I could’ve cleaned this up myself.”

“Yeah, but ya don’t hafta,” Kita insisted. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. I can hear you overthinkin’ from here.” He smiled sweetly and gently. “I can tell ya feel bad, but I don’t mind one bit, really. I’m just tryin’ to make yer life easier, yeah? ‘Sides, I like cleanin’, so it ain’t a big deal. Let me do this for ya.”

Suna slumped back against the bed, defeated. There was no arguing with Kita. “I still don’t get it,” He said after a few minutes passed.

Kita was placing books back on the shelf in alphabetical order. “That’s fine. I know it can be hard to understand why people care ‘bout ya when yer depressed,” He assured.

“How’d you know I’m depressed?”

“I guessed,” Kita said. “I struggle with depression too, so I know what it looks like.”

Suna faltered, lips parting in mild surprise; he always assumed Kita was untouchable and forged from steel. He seemed so unaffected, so level headed and rational, so perfect in every way. It was hard to imagine him feeling this way, like he could shrivel up any second and nobody would care. “Really? You do?”

Kita nodded.“Yeah,” He divulged, “It ain’t as bad now ‘cause I know how to manage it, but I used to have episodes every few months, sometimes more.”

“It started back in middle school, I think. Maybe earlier,” Kita explained as he shelved all of Suna’s books. “I kept gettin’ in slumps where I couldn’t do anythin’ but sit around feelin’ awful, and I didn’t know why. I didn’t wanna tell anyone ‘cause I felt so ashamed.” He placed the copy of _No Longer Human_ next to _Masks._ “It got to the point where I was spendin’ whole days stuck in bed,” He continued, “And it kept gettin’ worse and worse till it got so bad I couldn’t get up to use the bathroom or wash the sheets after I… _y’know_ …” Kita gestured with his hand, eyes averted. He sighed and picked up another book. “I told granny after that. I could tell I was reachin’ the point of no return and I didn’t wanna be that far gone.”

“It took time, but we scraped together enough funds to see somebody. We couldn’t afford long-term therapy— still can’t, honestly— but we figured gettin’ a diagnosis would give us direction,” Kita said. “Turns out, I’m on the autistic spectrum and we never knew. Did ya know that depression rates are really high for people with autism? And that bein’ undiagnosed makes it worse? I didn’t. Not till then, at least.” He put the book on the shelf. “Makes sense, though. Yer whole brains wired different and the world ain’t made for you. That’s enough to make anyone spiral.”

Suna listened intently, still hugging his knees. It hurt to hear about Kita suffering, but it was comforting as well. It gave him hope for recovery. “How do you manage it?” He pressed. “You said it’s not as bad now, right?”

“I don’t know if it’ll work for you. Different things help different people,” Kita said, “But, what helps me is formin’ healthy habits and routines. I read it in a book once, can’t remember which one, but the idea is to replace bad habits with ones that actually help.”

“We’re built on the little things we do each day, so I try to do good things, stuff that makes me happy. Cleanin’ my room every day, takin’ care of my body, settin’ aside time to watch shows I like, playin’ volleyball, talkin’ to family and friends… all that stuff that makes life worth livin’,” Kita said. “I already found comfort in routine, so buildin’ off of that and improvin’ myself that way helped.” He smiled. “And, now things are mostly manageable.”

“Sometimes ‘s hard to get up and do the things I gotta do, and I slip up some days, but I always try to do one or two things that make me feel good every day,” Kita said, “Even if it’s just brushin’ my teeth and walkin’ around the farm with our dog.”

Suna nodded along. It seemed wise, he thought, a fitting coping mechanism for Kita. “Thanks for telling me all this,” He mumbled. “And for helping.”

“No problem, Suna-san,” Kita said as he placed the last book on the shelf and walked over to the pile of clothes, picking up as much as he could carry. “Now, do ya mind showin’ me where yer washin’ machine is?”

  
  
  


Once the laundry was loaded into the washer, Kita turned and started walking back towards the bedroom, disappearing down the hall; Suna moved to follow him, but Osamu ushered him into the kitchen before he got the chance, sitting him down at the table.

“Eat up,” Osamu said, setting a bowl of ochazuke in front of Suna along with a pair of chopsticks. “I was gonna make somethin’ nicer than this,” He explained, “But I doubt you’ve been eatin’ much, so I figured I’d make somethin’ that’s light on the stomach instead. Hope that’s okay.” He smiled. “If ya don’t like salmon I can make it again with different toppings and eat this one for you.”

“No, this is fine,” Suna said, sliding the bowl closer to himself and staring at it pensively. He still felt guilty. He knew he wasn’t supposed to, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t used to compassion like this. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, but Kita’s already-”

“Don’t sweat it. I like cookin’ for ya, Sunarin,” Osamu insisted, cutting him off and waving aside his worries. He beamed. “Good food never fails to cheer me up, so eat up, alright? Havin’ nice stuff in yer body helps ya feel nice, I promise.” He gave two thumbs up, and if Suna weren’t so lost in his thoughts he would’ve rolled his eyes. 

Suna nodded. “Thanks, then,” He said as he picked up the chopsticks. He mumbled another “Thank you,” under his breath before taking a bite, voice soft and barely audible. It tasted good, unsurprisingly. It was warm and comforting, like any good ochazuke, and it made him feel the tiniest bit better; Osamu was right, he hadn’t been eating much. His stomach growled, and he took another bite. The dish radiated kindness. Suna felt cared for.

They sat in silence for a bit until Osamu cleared his throat, looking away sheepishly. “Look, I don’t know what Kita said, and I ain’t as good with talkin’ as him but, uh-” He tripped over his words, but tried his best. “Yer not alone in this, alright? We care about ya, and ‘s okay to be sad, but we’re here for ya if you ever need help, ‘kay? We’re your friends. We love you.”

Suddenly, Suna felt choked up. His eyes grew wet. He stuffed his mouth with more food and sniffled, wiping at his face with his pajama sleeves. Osamu meant it platonically. He knew this, but it couldn’t have been more meaningful. Knowing he was loved in any capacity was overwhelming. Being loved was rare, let alone being told so. Suna swallowed thickly, a stray tear trailing down his cheek. 

“I-I love you too,” He stuttered.

Saying it out loud was a relief. Suna meant the words as platonically as Osamu had, as platonically as Osamu would’ve wanted. His feelings went deeper than that, of course, but expressing some amount of them lifted weight from his shoulders. He barely held himself back from saying it a thousand times over like a prayer.

He thought about what Ito said after their failed date, thought about how space might be a good idea, how distance and time could clear his head. Then, he thought about how happy Osamu made him. He didn’t want to lose that, not for a second. This was too special to take a break from. He didn’t need to love Osamu as a boyfriend. Loving him as a friend was enough; Love in any capacity was enough. Osamu was his friend before he was his crush, and friendship was something to be treasured.

Suna continued wiping at his eyes, shoulders trembling as he struggled to keep the tears in. “Thank you,” He cried, “For being here, and for being my friend. Thank you, Osamu.”

“Ya don’t gotta thank me, Sunarin, ‘m here ‘cause I wanna be.”

  
  
  


Once he was done eating, Suna took a hot shower, and he returned to a clean room and freshly washed clothes laid out on his bed. They were still warm from the dryer, and he smiled as he changed into them, feeling somewhere close to functional.

Osamu and Kita stayed a bit longer to finish tidying up, watch a volleyball match, and talk about school and sports and those sorts of things over tea. They had to leave once it started getting dark, though, and Suna saw them off at the door, waving goodbye.

 _Text me when you get home,_ he said, watching Osamu climb onto his bike, _so I know you made it back safe._ Osamu nodded and pedaled off. 

  
  
  


_Home safe! Btw if ur wondering why Tsumu wasn’t there it’s not cause he doesn’t care,  
_ _He’s just in Tokyo rn (again) visiting his friend from camp.  
_ _Yknow that Sakuna guy he never shuts up about. (Sakuto? Sasuke? Idfk)_

  
  
  


On Monday, Suna went to school. He went the day after, too, because he didn’t want to worry anyone; mentally, he was worse for wear and not faring much better than he had been prior, but that was irrelevant. He was here, and there was nothing to complain about— technically speaking, everything was okay. Perfect, even. Borderline peachy keen. His friends cared, there was food on the table, water came out when he turned the tap, and he was safe. He should’ve been content. He had no right to be miserable, he thought, not when Osamu and Kita were working so hard to make sure he was okay.

He was fine, he was fine, _he was fine._ He told himself this much each morning while doing his eyeliner and each night when washing it off. There was no use in sadness, no point in depression, and no logic behind any of this. He was fine, he was loved, and everything should be fine. Really, it had to be. It was supposed to be.

Still, he was slipping faster than before. He couldn’t focus in class, had trouble sleeping, stared at nothing, blanked at random, and felt progressively worse and worse as he overexerted himself in an attempt to appear functional. His efforts to keep people from worrying were hurting him, and he felt terrible for it. He didn’t deserve to feel this way. His sadness was unearned and laughable. He needed to stop, but he didn’t know how.

Seated in the back of the room, Osamu would often ask him what was wrong, but there was no answer. Suna couldn’t come up with anything, the words wouldn’t form, and there was no reason to begin with. Everything was blurred and impossible to explain, like trying to translate a language that didn’t exist.

Why couldn’t anything work? Why couldn’t this be fixed? Why couldn’t he just be happy?

Suna felt broken and found his pain to be both insurmountable and unjustifiable. He wanted to pull his hair out or puke his guts up, anything to give his pain a purpose.

Unable to come to grips with feeling like this over nothing despite everything, he decided to give himself a reason to agonize. He wanted grounds for his sorrow, wanted it to be anything but baseless. If it wouldn’t stop, it should at least be logical. For that to happen, he had to go somewhere else, somewhere that made suffering the most sensible reaction.

  
  
  
  


“Mom,” Suna said during dinner, looking at her from the other side of their small kitchen table. She was home for once, and they were eating leftover takeout from the night before. He took a deep breath before continuing, shoulders slumped and head tilted in a faux-casual manner. “Can I stay with dad over the summer?” He asked with no inflection.

She blinked and nearly dropped her chopsticks in shock. “What? Why?” She asked, nonplussed.

“Because I want to.” Suna shrugged. He rested his head in his hand, giving a sigh, appearing almost bored. “The custody agreement says I’m allowed visitation at my discretion, and I kinda feel like visiting,” He explained, poking at his beef udon idly.

“I don’t think you should,” His mom advised. “I don’t want you going there.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s your father,” She reasoned, “You know what he’s like. We left him for a reason, and you shouldn’t be around him. I don’t want you to.”

“So? If I want to go, I can. That was the agreement,” Suna argued. He set his mind to this knowing full well what his dad was like and how he treated him. That was the whole point in going, that was his intention. “I’d like to spend the summer with him.”

She frowned. “But he’s- It’s safer here, isn’t it?”

“Maybe, but I don’t care. Just let me go,” Suna said. “You don’t have to drop me off or see him in person, I swear. I’ll ride the train on my own. All you have to do is give him a call and arrange a date.”

“But he doesn’t love you,” She said. “He wouldn’t want to see you.”

Suna scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, and you do?” He spat. “Stop acting like you care, stop acting like you want me here. Drop the pretense. We all know you don’t give a shit. This is the first time we’ve talked in weeks. There’s no point in lying about loving me.”

“I love you as much as I can,” She insisted. “More than he does, at least.”

“Which isn’t much,” Suna muttered. He set his chopsticks down with slightly too much force, no longer interested in eating.

“I’m trying!”

“Great, thanks, happy to hear that,” Suna said wryly. “You know, most moms don’t have to try and pretend they want their kids around.”

“Drop the attitude,” His mom snapped before seeming to realize she had just yelled at her child. She shrunk back then, hands balled into fists and lower lip wavering. “I-I’m just worried, okay?” She said, forcing a smile. “He’ll hurt you, I know he will. I’m worried about your safety and mental health."

Something in Suna snapped at that. The sentiment was almost sweet, but it was unwanted, unappreciated, and worthless considering the past. Her words were hollow and, if there was any truth in them, he didn’t care; it was too late for that sort of thing. He grit his teeth. “No, no, you don’t get to worry about me-”

_“Rintarou-”_

“No! Shut up! Don’t interrupt me!” Suna seethed, cutting her off. “You don’t get to worry about me, mom, not when you’re always brushing me off, not when you’re never here, not since middle school— not since you caught me in the bathroom trying to overdose and didn’t do shit!” His voice rose as he spoke, getting progressively louder and louder with each word. “You want to care _now?_ Only when I want to leave? What about back then? What about yesterday?” He drew in a sharp, shaky breath. “Don’t even get me started on the mental health thing when you’re the reason I’m not in therapy! You’re the one who canceled my appointments! If you wanted me to be okay, you should’ve done something when you had the chance.”

His mom hesitated. “It’s not my fault,” She said softly, clutching her wrist.

“Then whose is it?” Suna demanded, fuming.

“Your father’s,” She insisted, adamant in being blameless. “He’s the one that hurt us, he’s the one who ruined everything.”

“But he’s not here anymore!” Suna shouted and slammed on the table in frustration. The room was silent after that, everything eerily quiet in an instant. The words echoed in his mind. His breathing was too wet and too loud, and he could hear blood pumping fast in his ears. Slowly, he tried to relax his hands, struggling to regain composure, tears threatening to spill. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and turned away. “He’s not here,” Suna said. “He’s gone, you can’t blame him, don’t try and blame him, don’t you dare. It’s your fault now. It’s all your fault.”

“No, it’s not. Raising a kid alone is so much work, you wouldn’t understand. I didn’t ask to be a single mom, it’s a struggle. Every day is hard. It’s not my fault things are so hard, it’s not my fault caring for you takes so much work.”

“You don’t care for me, you’re not even raising me! I’m doing it all myself. My friends and I are the ones doing it, not you,” Suna cried. He was fed up with her not taking accountability. He was the child, and she was the adult. Things were supposed to be different. He wasn’t supposed to be pulling the weight here. “You didn’t ask to be a single mom, but guess what! I didn’t ask to be born!” He sniffled, hiccuping out a tiny sob. “I didn’t choose to exist, mom, you’re the one who put me here.” His shoulders shook. “You’re the one who wanted to have me.”

“I didn’t,” His mom whispered, barely audible.

Suna stared at her. “What?”

“I-” Her voice broke, and she started tearing up too. “I never wanted to have you,” She admitted, “You were an accident, I- Your father, he-” She shook her head. “Look, I’m sorry for being gone so much, but it’s difficult being around you.” She began wiping at her face, sniveling. “You look just like him.”

Suna started to shake. His body felt foreign and alien, no longer his. He felt nauseous, too, stomach threatening to spill.

His mom continued speaking, slow and careful, standing up and approaching Suna as if he were dangerous. “Just stay here. Don’t go. I’ll try harder, or I’ll leave you alone completely. Whichever you want, whatever you want, just don’t-”

Suna trembled. “Fuck you,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Rintarou, don’t-”

“Fuck you!” He practically screamed, standing up and taking a step back, nearly falling over in the process. His vision was so clouded he could barely see, and he couldn’t get a grip on anything, freaking out. The world was spinning, his heart was going to explode, and his mind was going haywire, fight or flight instincts firing off repeatedly. He felt like he was going to die. “Don’t- Don’t talk to me, mom, you should’ve aborted me, I was a mistake, I-” He struggled to speak, only vaguely aware of his rapid breathing. He was hyperventilating, and he couldn’t stop. He had no control over himself.

His mom tried to place a hand on his arm in an attempt to comfort him, but he pushed her away harshly, moving on instinct. “Don’t touch me! Don’t do anything! Fuck off!”

Suna froze the moment he realized what he did. He looked at his mom, watched as she stumbled onto the floor, arms splayed behind her, face wet with tears. To his horror, he realized he was acting like his dad, and he took another step back, putting more distance between himself and his mom.

This wasn’t his fault, right? It couldn’t be. He was panicking, he was a child, he was being neglected, he—

He felt like his mom now, too, shifting blame and not taking responsibility—

He couldn’t breathe—

_He can’t—_

_He—_

Suna sprinted off to his room suddenly, panicking as he locked the door with shaky hands. Everything was too much. He felt awful, unable to forget the image of his mom wide-eyed and stunned into silence, falling backward as she cried.

  
  
  
  


After a week, his mom finally caved and arranged for Suna to spend the summer with his dad. He’d leave two days after break started, be picked up at the station, and stay in Tokyo until a week before school began. 

He started packing his bag as soon as it was decided. He wasn’t eager, nor was he excited, but he was prepared. 

  
  
  


A few days later, Suna and Osamu were in the locker room before practice, changing side by side like usual.

“I’m spending break at my dad’s, so I’m not gonna be able to hang out,” Suna said as he stepped into his gym shorts. The words were meant mostly for Osamu’s sake, so he’d know what to expect but, selfishly, Suna was hoping he’d be stopped; He wanted Osamu to beg for him to stay. He wanted something to tie him down here, wanted desperately for something to keep him from making a horrible, self-destructive mistake.

Osamu did no such thing. “Oh, really? Have fun,” He said before pausing, glancing at Suna and raising a brow. “Wait, yer dad’s? He’s not here?”

Suna blinked. “Oh, right,” He said a bit dumbly. “My parents are divorced.” He looked away, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “I live with my mom, but my dad’s still in Tokyo. I haven’t seen him since we moved.”

“Why didn’t ya tell us? I feel bad for assumin’ they were together,” Osamu said.

“It’s fine, it didn’t bother me,” Suna assured. “I just wasn’t sure how to bring it up. I was scared, I guess, which is kinda silly looking back. Some people are weird about it, though, you know? Like, they judge you for it.”

Osamu nodded along. “I mean, it makes sense. Do ya know when yer leavin’?”

“I can’t remember the date off the top of my head,” Suna admitted, “But I’ll text you when I do.” _Please,_ he thought, _please stop me, please tell me not to go._

“Alright. Just make sure ya tell me when, ‘cause I wanna see ya off at the station.”

Suna tried to not be disappointed. Osamu couldn’t read minds, after all, it wasn’t his fault for knowing Suna didn’t actually want to stay with his dad— well, he wanted to, but he wanted somebody to notice how bad of an idea it was, wanted to be kept from hurting himself. 

“I will, don’t worry.”

  
  
  


The rest of the school year passed scarily fast. Suna went through each day half-dazed and barely present, paying next to no attention to anything. He felt lifeless, moving on auto-pilot more often than not, speaking without thinking and moving without meaning to; classes, practice, lunches, and finals all went by before he could process what was happening.

When his teacher congratulated him for making it through the year, Suna felt nothing.

When the third years graduated, he felt empty.

He was awarded the title of vice-captain, but he couldn’t bring himself to be happy or proud, not like the rest of the team. He brought his jersey home and hung it on the wall, looking at it with contempt. It felt unearned.

In his mind, he was unworthy. He was stealing something meant for someone else, he just knew it. This accomplishment wasn’t for somebody as awful as him.

***

_“This happiness is not for you,” some inner voice whispered to him.  
“This happiness is for those who have not in them what there is in you.” _

_\- Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace, 1869_

***

True to his word, Osamu met up with Suna at the train station to see him off, carrying a book in his hands as he walked over.

“I bought this for yer birthday at the beginning of the year,” He said while handing it over. “I mean, I don’t know when yer birthday is, but I figured you’d mention it if it was comin’ up. Since ya didn’t mention it durin’ the school year, ‘m assumin’ ‘s over break, so… here yea go.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “This is one of those Russian books ya like, right? The really long ones?” He tapped the cover. “The lady at the bookstore said it was.”

Suna took it with both hands, inspecting it carefully. It was a hardcover copy of _Anna Karenina_ by Leo Tolstoy, one of the few not in his collection. For some reason, he felt an ache in his chest as he tucked the book away into his backpack. “Thank you,” He said softly. “I haven’t read this one yet.”

“Then ya better read it this summer and tell me what ya think once yer back.”

“Alright, I will,” Suna said.

“Was I right about yer birthday bein’ over break?”

Suna shook his head. “No, it’s January twenty-fifth.”

Osamu gawked. “What? That was ages ago, why didn’t ya tell me? I woulda given it to ya sooner!”

“It never came up,” Suna said, shrugging, “And I don’t really celebrate. This is the first gift I’ve gotten in a while.”

“Then we’ll celebrate it next year for sure,” Osamu decided. He made two thumbs up, a gesture so ridiculously cute and cheesy that Suna couldn’t help laughing.

He wanted to say more, but he felt a hand on his shoulder before he got the chance. He glanced up to see his father, towering above him, and his stomach tied up in knots when they made eye contact.

“Hey dad,” Suna said hesitantly, palms sweaty.

“Hey Rintarou,” His dad greeted, “Long time no see.” He smiled in a cold, fake manner that filled Suna with unease. “Why don’t you say bye to your friend so we can be on our way?”

Suna turned to Osamu and, stiffly, he waved goodbye. “See you when breaks over,” He mumbled quietly, more cagey and nervous now that his dad was around, timid by reflex. _Tell me to say,_ he thought pleadingly, _Tell me not to go and I will._

Osamu waved back, oblivious to Suna’s internal monologue. “See ya! Make sure to text me and ‘Tsumu over break!”

“Y-Yeah, I will.”

Suna and his dad parted ways with Osamu and boarded the train without speaking. He realized, not for the first time, that this sort of self-harming behavior was ultimately regrettable, and he already wanted to be anywhere else.

Unfortunately, it was already too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, please comment and kudos and share this fic as it gives me motivation to keep going. I 100% plan to finish this (albeit at a slow pace) but feedback helps me be faster about it. This fic is deeply personal and cathartic to write, so I hope it's equallty cathartic to read, especially if you're an LGBT abuse victim like me (or a russian lit nerd like me LMAO) 
> 
> here's some notes made while writing:  
> -THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR THE POSITIVE RESPONSE LAST ACT! I really wasn't expecting so many people to like this fic, and I'm touched by your kind words. If this helps you, I'm happy. Please know that you're not alone in your suffering and that, eventually, things will be okay and you will be safe. I know you probably hear that a lot, and it always sounds cheesy, but as somebody who's thought that nothing will ever get better and I'll be in pain forever, things really can improve and life is worth living  
> -again, thank you to my boyfriend marcus for dealing with my bullshit and my constant whining about prose lol still not sorry for making you listen to me write while we're laying in bed  
> -and another really big thank you to twitter users @tiredsuna and @starocexn for letting me shove my google doc at you when i needed feedback. writing this much without direction can be stressful and I get really anxious, you two helped out a ton and made my life so much easier  
> -For those unaware, I'm also an illustrator and character designer. I actually draw more than I write! I haven't gotten around to drawing Ito (idk if I will) but I did draw Suzuki Ayano, Osamu's girlfriend from this act. [Take a look if you're interested!](https://twitter.com/chemicataclysm/status/1330083463333113858?s=20) I ended up loving her a lot.  
> -I have a lot I'm trying to say/portray with each act, and I trust you as the reader to draw conclusions and interpret it as you see fit, but will say that Kita's approach to coping with mental illness can be very helpful! I've recently tried to get into the habit of cleaning (even if it's just gathering dirty dishes) and it's made our apartment less of a mess already!  
> -Also, one very specific thing I tried to talk about was the compulsion to date other people just because they're gay? Idk if I did it service, but it was something I did a lot in middle/highschool because of the small dating pool and :( basically dont just date people because they're gay and interested in you, it's a recipe for disaster  
> -Very sorry for the note I ended this act on.  
> -Yokoo Tadanori's work is fun and interesting! I reccomend checking him out  
> -Autistic!Kita is a hc I like a lot but rarely see explored, I wanted to sprinkle it into this fic because I'm autistic  
> -Also, the miya twins are autistic too, just undiagnosed.  
> -And I just want to say my intention with the suna and his mom fighting scene isnt "aaugh suna's turning into his abuser for standing up to his mom!!" but about the mixed feelings you have when mirroring actions your abuser did, if that makes sense. Like, Suna's mom has it coming, I think Suna snapping was fully deserved, but as an abuse victim with ptsd even when your actions are justified feeling like youre "turning into your abuser" can be paralyzing  
> -I also just wanted to show a bit of Suna's mom's motivation


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